3  1822  00196  9161 


/  ^^     \ 

immnr  fci«m» 


>• 1 


>  '& 


on 


K 


THE  UNI  v  ttolTY  LIBRARY 
Ji  *  NlA>  SAN 

LA  JOIiA,  CALIFORNIA 


JNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  Dl 


&O/3 


3  1822  00196  9161 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS 
CALL 


BY 

BEATRICE  GRIMSHAW 

AUTHOR  OF  "FIJI  AND  ITS  POSSIBILITIES,"   "NEW  GUINEA,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright  1911,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

All  Rights  Reserved 
Published  June,  1911 


He  must  go — go— go  away  from  here! 
On  the  other  side  the  world  hes  overdue. 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  old 

Spring  fret  comes  oer  you, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you! 

KIPLING 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

PART  I 
HUGH  LYNCH'S  STORY 

CHAPTER  I 

T  AM  writing  this  in  prison. 

•*•  I  don't  know  that  anyone  will  ever  read  it,  but  if 
anyone  ever  should,  he  need  not  picture  to  himself 
a  cell  in  Portland  or  Wormwood  Scrubbs,  with  a  gas 
jet,  and  a  Bible,  and  a  spy -hole  in  the  door,  and  a  war- 
der walking  up  and  down  outside.  It  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent sort  of  prison  that  holds  me,  Hugh  Lynch  — 
thirty-one  years  of  age,  and  good  for  nothing  any  more 
—  this  dead,  damp,  choking-hot  "  northwestern " 
afternoon.  The  walls  are  corrugated  iron,  white- 
washed, and  very  clean ;  there  is  a  sleeping  mat  on  the 
floor,  and  a  pillow  and  a  box  and  a  tin  basin.  The 
window  is  an  open  shutter,  looking  out  to  sea.  I 
could  break  through  it,  or  the  floor,  with  a  pen- 
knife, any  night  —  supposing  Wilks,  the  jailer,  had 
not  left  the  door  open,  as  he  generally  does.  Wilks 
is  lazy,  and  does  not  much  like  the  bother  of  having 
a  white  prisoner ;  he  put  me  on  parole  the  first  day  I 
was  here,  so  that  he  should  not  be  troubled  to  look 
after  me.  A  cheap  parole,  truly!  Where  could  a 
man  escape  to,  in  British  New  Guinea,  as  it  remains 
even  in  this  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  — 

i 


2      WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

an  unexplored  wilderness  of  cannibal  savages,  about 
the  last  place  on  the  face  of  God's  earth. 

People  who  are  alive  some  twenty  years  hence  may 
have  a  different  tale  to  tell.  A  man  has  plenty  of 
time  to  think  in  prison,  and  a  pioneer  has  some  right 
to  prophesy.  I  would  stake  —  what  have  I  got  to 
stake?  Honor?  "  He  that  died  o'  Wednesday  "  may 
have  it,  not  I,  who  live  disgraced.  Money?  The 
crash  that  brought  me  here  carried  away  that  too ;  let 
it  go  —  it's  the  least  thing  a  man  can  lose.  Love? 
Not  safe  to  think  about  here,  Hugh,  while  Wilks 
obligingly  leaves  you  the  use  of  your  razor.  Well, 
then,  freedom,  the  only  star  in  my  black  sky  —  a  star 
a  long  way  off.  ...  I  would  stake  my  freedom 
that  this  wild  country  will  be  a  great  colony  some 
day. 

Who  knows  it  as  I  do  ?  Who  has  paid  so  for  what 
he  knows?  Half  drowned  a  dozen  times  on  the  river 
bars  —  nearly  eaten  by  alligators  oftener  than  I  could 
remember  —  speared  by  a  black  brute  in  Orangerie 
Bay  —  caught  and  tied  up  for  cooking  on  Ferguson 
Island  —  starved  to  a  skeleton  exploring  in  the  Owen 
Stanley  Range  —  down  with  fever  gold-hunting  in  the 
wood-larks,  in  the  Louisiades,  up  the  Mambare  River. 
Well,  I'm  not  writing  a  boys'  adventure  book,  but 
I  never  read  one  that  had  half  the  adventures  in  it 
I  have  had  in  this  out-of-the-way,  back-of -God-speed, 
dark,  devilish  hole  of  a  British  New  Guinea. 

.  .  .  Which,  in  spite  of  all  the  names  I  call  it, 
and  all  it  has  done  to  me,  I  can't  help  liking,  even 
yet.  That's  the  way  with  us  in  New  Guinea  —  we 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  3 

sow  for  someone  else  to  reap.  What  have  I  reaped 
out  of  my  six  years  in  the  country?  Well,  that  is 
what  I  set  out  to  write;  I  shall  come  to  it  by  and 
by. 

The  days  here  are  so  long,  in  spite  of  the  odd  jobs  of 
whitewashing,  gardening,  and  grooming  given  me  by 
the  jailer,  that  I  have  felt  obliged  to  make  some  oc- 
cupation for  the  empty  hours.  I  begged  an  old 
ledger,  only  quarter  filled,  from  Wilks  to-day,  and 
in  that  I  am  going  to  write  down,  day  by  day,  as 
time  may  serve,  the  whole  truth  about  my  wretched 
story  —  partly  for  my  own  employment,  and  partly 
because  .  .  . 

No,  I  won't  write  that  second  "  because."  I  don't 
care  if  she  ever  does  know.  I  don't  care  if  she  is 
dead.  No  more  about  her!  I  write  to  please  my- 
self, no  one  else. 

How  quiet  the  prison  is!  It  is  the  hottest  hour  of 
the  afternoon,  the  parrots  have  ceased  their  scream- 
ing in  the  bush  that  lies  behind  the  hill,  the  leather- 
heads  have  not  yet  begun  their  evening  squawking 
and  scandalizing  among  the  palm-tree  tops.  All  the 
native  prisoners  are  out  working  on  the  roads ;  Wilks, 
I  suspect,  is  taking  an  afternoon  nap  after  his  mid- 
day "  comforter."  There  is  not  a  sound  but  the  hum- 
ming of  the  surf  on  the  coral  reef,  a  long  way  out  at 
sea,  and  the  little  ruffle  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the 
beach  below  the  jail.  The  sea  is  of  a  blue  that  hits 
you  like  a  slap  in  the  face;  the  white  sand  scorches 
your  eyes,  the  tangle  of  bush  and  creepers  on  the 
shore  is  poisonously  green.  One  can  only  say  that 


4  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  whole  landscape  screams,  in  spite  of  the  stillness 
of  the  day. 

Port  Moresby  is  out  of  sight  round  the  corner  — 
half  a  dozen  tin  bungalows  with  stilty  legs  and  big 
verandas,  offices,  some  of  them,  a  store  or  two,  a 
house  or  two  —  that  is  all.  And  here,  on  the  grass 
below  the  "  capitol,"  stands  the  jail,  my  home. 

Who  and  what  am  I,  and  why  am  I  here  ?  A  page 
copied  out  of  Wilks'  rough-and-ready  prison  register 
will  answer.  I'm  not  a  young  lady  in  a  novel,  so  I  can- 
not very  well  describe  myself,  but  I  think  Wilks  has 
done  it  accurately  enough. 

"LYNCH,  Hugh.  White.  Age  31.  National- 
ity, Irish.  Crime,  manslaughter.  Sentence,  two 
years. 

"Description  —  Height,  5  feet  8^2.  Hair,  dark 
red,  very  thick.  Face  much  tanned.  Eyes  small, 
grayish-brown.  Clean  shaved.  Wide  mouth,  good 
teeth.  Nose  short  and  irregular.  Small  ears.  Ex- 
ceptional development  of  muscle  all  over.  Somewhat 
round-shouldered. 

"  Marks  —  Knife  scar  on  left  shoulder.  Spear 
mark  right  thigh.  Tattooing  —  Dragon  left  fore- 
arm; mermaid,  red  and  blue  on  back;  snake  (blue) 
encircling  right  upper  arm ;  "  Panchita  M."  center  of 
chest ;  "  Armour  eternal,  1887,"  enclosed  in  circle 
(red)  over  left  breast;  girl's  head  in  a  crescent  moon 
(blue)  over  fourth  rib,  right  side.  Device  appar- 
ently erased  with  acid,  just  above. 

"  Speaks  French  and  Spanish,  also  Motuan  and 
several  other  New  Guinea  dialects." 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  5 

.  .  .  I  had  just  got  so  far,  when  the  doctor 
came  in  on  a  visit  of  inspection.  He  was  a  little 
drunk,  as  usual,  and  very  pleasant;  I  think  his  gram- 
mar was  rather  worse  than  usual  (when  an  Irishman 
is  vulgar  be  sure  he's  an  Ulsterman,  like  M'Gonigal)' 
and  he  was  much  inclined  to  talk.  He  took  Wilks' 
ledger  off  the  floor,  where  it  lay  while  I  was  copy- 
ing, seated  on  my  mat,  and  began  to  read  it  aloud  with 
shrieks  of  laughter.  Wilks,  who  had  followed,  stood 
sheepishly  looking  on,  his  mouth  full  of  afternoon 
tea. 

"'Nose  irregular,"  read  the  doctor;  "'excep- 
tional muscular  development.'  Them  two  things 
hangs  together,  me  boy ;  you're  apt  to  find  an  irregular 
nose  with  an  arm  and  a  chest  like  yours,  and  the  rid 
hair  that  shows  the  fiery  timper.  .  .  »  '  Round- 
shouldered ' —  Ignor-ramus!  did  j'ever  see  a  Herk- 
ewls  with  the  carriage  of  a  Ganymede,  now?" 

"  No,  sir,  certainly  not,  sir,"  says  poor  Wilks,  hope- 
lessly muddled. 

' '.  .  .  Speaks  Spanish  —  "  Panchita  "  —  speaks 
French  —  "Amour  eternal  "  —  girl  in  a  crescent  — 
girl,  or  something  about  a  girl,  burned  out  —  knife 
wound  on  the  left  shoulder ' —  and  them  hangs  to- 
gether too,  ye  Lutherian!  Why,  it's  a  biography 
ye've  written,  here,  Wilks  .  .  .  Manslaughter 
.  .  .  hm!  hm!  Give  us  a  sup  of  the  tea  ye  have 
in  your  quarters,  Mr.  Jailer,  with  the  flavoring  that 
I  perceive  ye've  been  adding  to  it  —  and  we'll  let  the 
lad  alone;  after  all,  we  don't  an-natomise  a  criminal 
before  he's  dead,  even  in  British  New  Guinea." 


6  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  was  afraid  the  doctor  would  begin  overhauling 
my  manuscript,  but  he  never  even  glanced  at  it  — 
he  has  more  refinement  of  feeling  than  his  grammar 
might  lead  one  to  expect.  He  walked  out  of  the 
cell,  still  laughing,  and  Wilks  followed  him,  carrying 
his  register  with  him.  It  ought  never  to  have  been 
there,  but  there  is  not  much  prison  discipline  in  Port 
Moresby. 

Alone  again  in  my  little  whitewashed  box,  with  not  - 
a  sound  to  disturb  me  but  the  dry  rustle  of  the  palms 
outside,  I  sat  and  thought  for  a  long  time,  looking 
out  at  the  flat  blue  sea.  There  was  a  lakatoi  on  it 
a  little  while  ago  —  a  huge  canoe  with  immense 
curved  bat-like  wings,  .skimming  along  towards  Paga 
Hill.  There  was  a  thin  black  streak,  far  out  at  sea, 
followed  by  a  long  crystal  wake  —  that  was  an  alli- 
gator, going  after  the  lakatoi.  I  watched  them  both 
out  of  sight;  the  sea  is  empty  now,  and  I  have  taken 
up  my  pen  again. 

I  think  that  the  doctor  spoke  the  truth.  Wilks  has 
written  a  pretty  large  slice  of  my  autobiography  for 
me.  I'll  let  it  go  at  that. 

Three  years  before  the  mast  at  sea  —  a  year  in 
Ecuador  and  Bolivia  —  another  in  Tahiti  and  New 
Caledonia  —  another  in  Australia  —  six  in  New 
Guinea.  That's  the  tale,  in  the  rough.  A  gentleman 
to  begin  with,  a  County  Clare  lad  meant  for  the 
army,  and.  brought  home  from  his  tutor's  at  eighteen 
to  be  told  that  his  father  was  dead,  his  property 
muddled  away,  and  himself  a  beggar  —  that  was  the 
beginning  of  life  for  Hugh  Lynch.  I  had  an  uncle  on 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  7 

my  mother's  side  (she  had  died  long  before  the  black 
days  came  on  us,  thank  God)  and  he  found  a  place 
for  me  in  a  Liverpool  warehouse  as  a  junior  clerk. 
I  kept  the  place  just  ten  days.  The  eleventh  day 
found  me  berthed  in  the  forecastle  of  a  five  hundred 
ton  brig,  bound  for  Buenos  Aires  —  entered  on  the 
books  as  an  able  seaman,  and  well  worth  my  wages, 
too;  I  hadn't  sailed  my  father's  yacht  round  Ireland, 
and  up  to  Stromness,  for  nothing.  As  for  the  senior 
clerk  in  Pettigrew's  of  Water  Street,  he  probably  got 
a  couple  of  new  front  teeth  from  the  dentist  near 
the  Town  Hall,  next  Saturday,  and  I  don't  think  the 
split  in  his  lip  would  bother  him  for  more  than  a  day 
or  two.  All  things  considered,  he  was  lucky. 

Was  I? 

Well,  for  the  next  few  years,  "  all  the  kingdoms  of 
the  earth,  and  the  glory  of  them,"  were  mine.  If  I 
paid  the  price  one  is  supposed  to  pay,  I  got  what  I 
paid  for.  They  say  the  devil  is  fond  of  cheating  you 
out  of  the  goods  you've  bought.  He  did  not  cheat 
me. 

There's  a  good  deal  one  does  not  care  to  think  of 
in  cool  blood,  about  the  history  of  those  years.  If 
I  told  the  story  of  the  knife  scar  that  I  shall  carry 
to  my  grave,  and  the  story  of  the  little  wooden  cross 
in  the  big  barranco  beyond  La  Paz,  that  goes  with 
it  —  if  I  wrote  down  everything  that  happened  in  that 
mutiny  off  the  Chilian  coast,  who  sunk  the  Senorita, 
and  why,  and  what  you'd  find  tied  to  the  main- 
mast, if  you  got  a  diving  dress,  and  went  down  to 
look,  and  why  I  would  not  take  the  governorship  of 


8  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  island,  if  it  were  offered  me,  to  go  back  and  live 
in  Tahiti  —  if  I  wrote  all  that,  and  the  rest,  that  I 
haven't  touched  on,  there'd  be  more  biography  on 
the  paper,  and  of  a  queerer  kind,  than  ever  M'Gonigal 
professes  to  have  found  on  my  skin. 

You  see,  I  had  the  education  of  a  gentleman,  and 
the  muscles  of  a  strong  man  in  a  circus,  and  the  salt 
drop  in  the  blood  that  drives  to  wandering.  Mix 
those  together,  and  you'll  get  a  stew  with  pepper  in 
it.  There  has  been  nothing  mean  or  dishonest  in 
my  life,  but  I'm  afraid  that  is  the  very  best  my  very 
best  friend  could  say  for  me.  And  if  I  have  not  suc- 
ceeded in  unclassing  myself  altogether,  I  have  gone 
a  long  way  toward  it.  Whether  that  is  an  advantage 
or  not,  is  one  of  the  things  I  have  never  been  able 
to  decide.  At  all  events  it  is  so,  beyond  altering. 
Of  no  class,  no  country,  no  home,  and  no  future  — 
that  is  what  I  am,  and  where  the  "  Red  Gods  "  have 
led  me,  at  the  last. 

And  now  for  the  story! 

It  begins  three  years  ago,  when  I  came  into  Port 
Moresby  to  look  for  a  wife.  I  had  taken  up  the 
prettiest  little  group  of  islands  a  man  ever  saw,  ten 
or  fifteen  miles  from  the  mainland  of  the  northeast 
coast,  and  had  planted  them  with  cocoanuts.  There 
was  pearl-shell  in  the  center  lagoon,  and  fine  Turkey 
sponge  near  the  outer  reef,  and  hawksbill  turtle  all 
over  the  place.  I  had  had  a  house  built  of  native 
materials,  a  little  brown  home  like  a  bird's  nest,  set 
among  the  big  palms  that  had  been  growing  on  the 
island  for  half  a  century,  with  my  new  young  trees 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  9 

behind  it,  and  the  beach  and  the  lagoon  before.  After 
a  long  day  overseeing  the  work  of  the  boys,  I  used 
to  light  my  pipe,  and  sit  on  the  veranda,  watching  the 
sun  go  down  over  the  barrier  reef,  in  a  blaze  of  colors 
that  no  one  would  believe,  if  I  could  describe  it,  and 
listening  to  the  jumping  of  the  fish  in  the  still  water 
below.  The  head  boy  would  be  busy  making  curry 
and  tea  for  me  in  the  cookhouse;  when  he  had  done, 
he  would  lay  my  table,  and  go  off  to  his  own  little 
hut  at  the  back  of  the  island,  where  his  Motuan  wife 
would  be  waiting  for  him,  with  the  sago  hot  from  the 
fire  in  a  wooden  bowl,  and  the  white  cocoanut  cream 
in  another,  set  out  on  the  floor  mat.  And  there  was 
a  fat  little  brown  baby,  that  used  to  roll  about  at 
the  foot  of  the  veranda  ladder,  and  shriek,  when  it 
saw  its  father  coming  down  the  avenue  of  palms. 
I've  heard  it,  many  an  evening,  when  I  had  finished 
early,  and -gone  out  for  a  walk  round  the  island.  It 
used  to  put  me  into  the  blues,  that,  and  the  look  of 
Bogi  sitting  cooking  on  the  floor,  with  the  light  of 
the  hurricane  lamp  behind  her.  Some  of  the  other 
boys  had  wives  with  them  too  —  I  never  prevented 
their  bringing  their  girls  along,  it  helped  to  keep  them 
contented  —  and,  what  with  one  thing  and  another, 
my  smart  little  house  used  to  look  solitary  and  empty 
to  me,  of  evenings.  It  was  the  first  real  home  I  had 
had  since  I  was  a  child,  that  island  plantation;  but  it 
did  not  seem  homelike. 

Well,  the  end  of  it  was  that  one  day  I  provisioned 
my  cutter  for  a  long  trip,  told  my  head  boy  I  shouldn't 
be  back  for  some  weeks,  gave  him  a  fathom  of  in- 


to  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

structions,  and  the  keys  of  the  store,  and  set  sail  out 
of  the  lagoon  for  Port  Moresby.  What  with  calms 
and  head  winds,  it  took  me  near  three  weeks  to  get 
there,  being  the  northwest  season,  but  I  did  arrive  at 
last,  and  tied  up  the  Bird  of  Paradise  to  the  new 
jetty,  intending  to  live  in  her  cabin  till  I  had  bought 
my  stores,  and  had  a  look  round  the  township,  and 
found  a  pretty  little  girl  from  Hanuabada  or  Elivara 
to  take  back  to  Clare  Island  —  so  I  had  called  my 
small  property,  after  my  native  country  at  home. 

I  did  the  straight  thing  from  the  beginning.  I 
didn't  want  a  wild  little  savage,  but  a  girl  who  could 
speak  a  bit  of  English,  and  was  handy  about  a  white 
man's  house,  and  that  meant  a  mission  girl,  and  that 
meant  marrying  her.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  a 
man  could  honestly  ask  any  white  woman  to  share  such 
a  life  as  mine  had  to  be,  on  that  Robinson  Crusoe 
island,  surrounded  at  a  distance  of  only  a  few  miles 
by  untamed  cannibal  tribes,  and  without  any  of  the 
comforts  of  civilization  —  and  in  any  case,  there  were 
practically  no  white  women  in  the  country.  A  na- 
tive wife,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  good  enough  for 
such  a  ne'er  do  weel  as  myself,  and  I  thought  I'd  be 
good  enough  for  her.  So  I  went  up  to  the  mission 
house  that  very  same  afternoon,  and  told  Chalmers, 
who  was  a  very  important  person  in  New  Guinea  in 
those  days  (and  still  is),  exactly  what  I  wanted. 

Chalmers  is  a  good  man,  and  a  plucky,  but  he  has 
a  bit  of  the  "  turbulent  priest "  about  him,  and  he 
lectured  me  more  than  I  liked,  considering  the  errand 
on  which  I  had  come.  He  said  I  was  a  godless  trader ; 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  n 

I  told  him  that  was  true,  but  I  didn't  see  what  it  had 
to  do  with  the  case;  there  were  neither  gods  nor 
trading  in  this  deal,  only  matrimony,  and  that  was  his 
job,  if  anything  was.  He  said  then  that  he  didn't 
approve  of  these  mixed  marriages.  I  said  I  didn't 
ask  for  his  approval;  he  wasn't  my  father,  or  my 
uncle,  and  I  was  of  age,  and  able  to  answer  for  my- 
self. If  he  did  not  see  his  way  to  doing  any  matri- 
monial agency  business,  why,  I  would  just  nip  up 
the  first  girl  I  fancied,  whether  she  belonged  to  any- 
one else  or  not,  put  her  on  board  my  cutter,  and 
make  sail  for  Clare  Island  without  any  parsons  in 
the  business  at  all.  And  I  had  no  doubt,  I  added, 
that  if  there  was  anything  to  score  up  in  heaven 
against  such  a  proceeding,  it  would  go  down  to  Mr. 
Chalmers'  account,  not  mine. 

Well,  considering  that  I  was  fairly  rude  to  him, 
he  took  it  rather  well.  He  said  that  of  two  evils 
one  must  choose  the  less,  and  that  in  any  case,  I  was 
acting  honestly.  One  of  his  teachers  would  take  me 
over  the  mission  school,  and  if  I  saw  any  girl  that 
I  liked,  of  suitable  age,  he  would  marry  us  —  under 
protest,  he  took  care  to  add.  Such  marriages  never 
turned  out  well,  in  his  experience. 

I  did  not  trouble  to  hear  any  of  his  experience,  but 
went  off  up  to  the  hotel  (as  they  called  it;  it  was, 
and  is,  only  a  tin  shanty  where  they  keep  a  half- 
rotten  billiard  table,  and  sell  vile  liquor),  spent  as 
cheerful  an  evening  as  I  could,  with  two  or  three 
schooner  captains,  and  the  dozen  or  so  residents  of  the 
town  —  and  put  all  thoughts  of  my  matrimonial  in- 


12  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

tentions  out  of  my  head,  as  is  my  way  when  I  have 
a  job  in  front  of  me  that  wants  taking  seriously. 
Never  cross  a  bridge  till  you  come  to  it,  is  my  motto. 

.  .  .  And  after  all,  it  was  fate,  or  chance,  or 
whatever  one  may  choose  to  call  the  blind  "  divinity 
that  shapes  our  ends,"  that  arranged  the  whole  mat- 
ter. 

I  had  turned  out  of  my  hot  little  bunk  rather  early, 
while  the  sun  was  still  low  among  the  shiny  leaves 
of  the  mangroves  round  the  shore,  and  had  dived 
overboard  into  twenty  feet  of  sapphire-blue  water, 
as  warm  as  your  hand,  for  my  morning  dip.  I  had 
put  myself  into  a  clean  white  shirt  and  trousers,  and 
stuck  a  Canario  knife,  with  an  ivory  and  silver  inlaid 
handle,  into  the  red  Spanish  sash  I'd  unearthed  from 
my  old  stores,  to  enhance  the  beauty  that  Nature 
hadn't  given  me.  I  knew  I  was  an  ugly  brute,  but 
I  fancied  myself  a  bit  all  the  same,  knowing  that  I 
was  the  kind  of  brute  that  generally  gets  a  good  deal 
more  than  it  deserves. 

.  .  .  Curious,  how  I  write  all  this  in  the  past 
tense,  as  if  I  were  old,  or  dead  —  I,  just  over  thirty, 
and  as  full  of  life  as  one  of  those  darting  seabirds, 
glancing  about  the  inner  reef.  Can  Eliso  or  any 
woman  on  earth  have  hit  me  as  hard  as  that,  no 
matter  what  she  has  done?  I  don't  want  to  believe 
it  ...  yet  there's  some  spring  broken  in  these 
last  few  months  —  something  that  leaves  just  a  little 
hollow,  sick  feeling  where  a  swelling  buoyancy  of  self- 
conceit  used  to  float  me  up.  I  do  not  think,  if  I  live 
to  be  a  hundred,  I  shall  ever  swagger  again,  mentally 


.WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL      13 

or  physically,  as  I  swaggered  in  my  fine  clothes  down 
Hanuabada  village  that  morning,  proud  as  a  peacock 
of  my  youth  and  strength,  and  feeling  that  I  was 
coming  among  these  savages  like  a  fairy  prince 
from  another  world,  his  hands  full  of  gifts  and 
honors.  .  . 

Among  all  the  sea  villages  of  New  Guinea,  there  is 
none  prettier  than  Hanuabada.  It  stands  up  in  the 
clear,  green  water  on  long,  stilt-like  piles,  ten  or  fifteen 
feet  high,  the  seaweed  end  of  each  house  well  out  among 
the  waves,  the  landward  end  just  touching  the  white 
coral  gravel  of  the  village  street.  Every  house  has 
its  quaint,  native-style  veranda,  decorated  with  white 
shells,  and  streamers  of  brown  fiber,  and  all  the  deep 
thatch  roofs  are  finished  off  with  long,  lobster-like 
horns,  making  the  place  look,  at  a  little  distance,  like 
a  school  of  weird  sea-monsters  just  climbing  out  of 
the  water  to  invade  the  land.  It  was  early  as  I  came 
down  the  street,  and  the  colonnade  of  palms  that 
fronts  the  houses  was  shot  through  with  green  and  gold 
lights  from  the  climbing  sun.  Tall,  naked,  brown  men, 
with  immense  mops  of  hair,  and  gay  haloes  of  parrot 
plumes,  were  strolling  or  squatting  about  the  veran- 
das, some  getting  ready  nets  and  spears  for  fishing, 
others  finishing  up  the  bowls  of  gluey  sago,  and  the 
fat  roasted  yams,  that  their  wives  had  been  cooking 
for  them.  Blue  smoke  from  the  breakfast  fires  filled 
the  village;  the  dogs  were  running  eagerly  about,  the 
children  tumbling  in  heaps,  like  windfalls  of  shiny 
brown  fruit,  at  the  foot  of  the  veranda  ladders.  I 
can  see  the  picture  as  if  it  were  yesterday  —  and  the 


i4  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

native  girls  flitting  in  and  out  through  it  all,  their 
full  ballet  skirts  of  colored  grasses  swinging  like  the 
costume  of  a  premiere  danseuse,  their  necks  loaded 
down  with  clattering  beads  and  strings  of  white  dogs' 
teeth,  handfuls  of  blood-red  hibiscus  glowing  in  their 
huge  soft  mats  of  hair.  They  are  pretty,  these  Han- 
uabada  women,  and  well  they  know  how  to  use  those 
soft  black  eyes  of  theirs,  on  white  or  colored  male  hu- 
manity ! 

But  with  the  men  about,  the  looks  that  they  cast 
at  the  "  taubada "  were  necessarily  few  and  veiled. 
One  girl  only  of  the  whole  crowd  came  forward 
openly,  as  I  walked  down  the  village,  and,  to  my  sur- 
prise, spoke  my  name.  I  halted,  and  took  a  look  at 
her.  She  was  about  fourteen  —  which  means  a  fully 
developed  woman,  among  these  tribes  —  and  was  the 
prettiest  little  thing  I  had  seen  for  a  long  time. 
Small,  dainty,  with  tiny,  pretty  hands  and  feet,  and 
graceful  limbs,  her  color  clear  bronze  brown,  her  eyes 
as  big  and  soft  as  a  seal's,  she  took  my  fancy  mightily. 
I  was  almost  certain,  somehow,  that  I  had  seen  her 
before,  but  I  could  not  place  her.  I  stood  looking 
at  her  for  a  minute,  admiring  the  picture  she  made 
with  the  early  sun  dancing  on  her  beads  and  shell  neck- 
laces, and  outlining  in  gold  the  becoming  lines  of  the 
blue  tattoo  upon  her  slender,  unclad  body.  Her  hands 
were  joined  together  at  arms'  length  over  the  gay 
red  and  yellow  stripes  of  her  topmost  ballet-skirt ;  she 
looked  shyly  up  at  me  from  under  the  overhanging 
mass  of  her  black  hair. 

"  Me  here !  "  was  what  she  said.     And  immediately 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  15 

put  one  of  her  necklaces  into  her  mouth,  and  bit  it 
coyly. 

"  Why,  Kari ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  so  it's  you,  grown 
up!" 

I  was  better  pleased  than  if  I'd  found  a  hundred 
pounds.  Kari  was  a  little  lass  I  had  discovered  wan- 
dering by  herself  in  the  bush,  deserted  by  her  tribe, 
several  years  before,  when  I  had  been  out  prospecting 
for  sapphires  about  the  Astrolabe  country.  I  had 
brought  her  down  to  Port  Moresby,  and  handed  her 
over  to  the  mission.  They  put  her  in  a  teacher's 
family,  and  started  in  to  instruct  her  about  Noah 
and  the  ark,  and  Jonah's  whale,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it.  I  suppose  it  didn't  do  her  any  harm;  you  must 
fill  a  native's  mind  up  with  something  or  other,  if 
you  want  to  keep  him  or  her  out  of  mischief  —  and 
some  of  the  other  things  they  taught  her  —  not  to  eat 
dogs  or  cats  or  human  beings ;  not  to  buy  charms  from 
sorcerers  to  kill  her  enemies ;  what  to  do  with  a  piece 
of  soap;  how  to  make  bread,  and  sew  clothes  —  were 
really  useful. 

I  had  not  heard  much  about  her  after  she  went  to 
the  mission;  I  believe  I  was  not  considered  fit  so- 
ciety for  a  promising  young  convert,  and  when  I  sent 
to  ask  how  she  was  getting  on,  as  I  did  once  or  twice, 
the  answers  were  rather  curt.  I  had  given  the  mis- 
sion a  bolt  of  calico  for  my  little  protegee  every 
time  I  came  to  Port  Moresby  (which  was  seldom) 
and  that  seemed  to  me  as  much  as  the  circumstances 
demanded.  It  is  a  fact  that  I  had  never  thought  of 
Kari  as  a  wife,  when  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get 


16  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

married  —  she  was  in  my  memory  as  a  child  only, 
and  I  did  not  realize  how  quickly  a  native  girl  grows 
up. 

But  the  thought  was  there  now.  I  remembered  well 
what  a  brave,  bright  little  companion  the  child  had 
been,  during  those  weeks  of  rough  journeying  through 
the  Astrolabe  —  how  she  had  picked  up  bits  of  the 
quaintest  pigeon  English,  and  talked  to  me  after  an 
odd  fashion  of  her  own  —  Kari  was  not  in  the  least 
like  any  other  child  I  had  ever  come  across  —  how 
she  had  tried  to  help  me  with  the  work  of  my  camp, 
fetching  water,  hanging  my  mosquito  net,  tending 
fires;  whatever  her  tiny  hands  could  find  to  do,  in 
fact  —  and  how  really  fond  the  small  creature  had 
been  of  myself.  And  here  she  was,  a  full-grown 
woman  according  to  native  ideas,  a  pretty  one  too, 
and  just  the  same  bright  little  bird  of  a  Kari  as  ever. 
I  wondered  whether  I  could  do  better,  if  I  overhauled 
the  whole  of  the  mission  school. 

But  first  I  wanted  to  find  out  what  she  was  doing 
alone  in  the  village,  in  native  dress,  or  rather  undress, 
and  without  any  of  the  mission  teachers.  Could  she 
be  married  already?  I  felt  astonishingly  vexed  at  the 
idea  —  more  or  less.  I  had  always  felt  a  sort  of  pro- 
prietary interest  in  my  small  foundling. 

She  was  still  standing  in  the  sun,  looking  shyly  up 
under  her  fuzz-bush  of  hair,  and  biting  her  necklace. 

'  You  here !  "  she  added  to  her  original  remark  by- 
and-by. 

'  Yes,  Kari,  I'm  here,  undoubtedly.  What  you 
make  alonga  village,  eh  ?  " 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  17 

Kari's  face  clouded  over,  and  the  necklace  dropped. 
The  brown  bosom  began  to  heave  under  its  elaborate 
embroidery  of  tattoo.  The  full  Papuan  under-lip 
rolled  outwards. 

"  Too-morrow,"  she  got  out  with  difficulty,  "  I 
marry  this  my  'usband,  Pona."  She  pointed  to  a  big 
ugly  fellow  in  a  pink  shirt  and  his  own  dark  legs,  who 
was  chewing  betel,  and  spitting  gory  mouthfuls  on  the 
ground,  at  a  little  distance. 

"Who's  Pona?"  I  demanded. 

"  He  good  man.  He  studen'  'long  school,  pleach 
Sunday.  Too-morrow,  marry  me  'long  miss'n." 

"  You  like  marry  him,  Kari  ?  " 

Kari's  eyes  overflowed,  and  she  gave  a  little  sniff 
for  answer.  I  began  to  blaze.  What  right  had 
anyone  to  marry  the  little  creature  against  her 
will? 

"  No  like,"  she  sniffed  out  at  last. 

"Why?" 

More  sniffs  answered.  "  He  fool  my  hair.  He 
give  me  stick.  He  tell  me  I  go  'long  hell,  suppose  I 
no  marry  him.  He  good  man,  flenty  he  savvy  flenty 
fray,  all  same  I  no  like." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  missionaries,  Kari?"  I 
fumed.  "  I  don't  suppose  they  know  what  Pona  is. 
A  first  class  hypocrite,  no  doubt!  What  are  you 
afraid  of?  Afraid  of  going  to  hell?" 

"  I  no  fright  along  hell,"  confessed  the  little  bride. 
"  I  think  more  better  I  go  to  hell,  Pona  he  no  stop. 
Pona  good  man,  Kari  bad  girl.  You  going  hell  some- 
time, Lineti.  Flenty  white  man  he  go  hell,  flenty 


18  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

white  man  bad,  all  same  me,  all  same  you.  All  bad 
feofle,  we  stop  long  other.  I  like." 

This  candid  confession  of  faith  would  have  made 
me  laugh  another  time,  but  I  was  too  angry  to  be 
amused.  I  blurted  straight  out  what  was  in  my  mind, 
without  thought  of  care  or  consequence. 

"  Kari,  you  shan't  marry  him,"  I  said.  "  You  shall 
marry  me,  and  come  with  me  to  my  island.  I  want  a 
little  wife  like  you.  You  come  right  up  to  the  mis- 
sion, and  I'll  settle  it  to-day." 

I  had  forgotten  to  talk  pigeon  English,  but  Kari 
understood.  Up  went  the  necklace  into  her  mouth 
again,  the  shy  bright  eyes  looked  at  me  kindly,  but 
with  a  touch  of  doubt. 

'  You  good  along  me  ?  "  asked  the  small  brown 
woman. 

"  Yes,  Kari,  I  good  along  you." 

'  You  no  fool  my  hair,  no  giving  stick,  making  me 
cly?" 

"  I'll  not '  fool '  your  hair  or  beat  you,  Kari." 

'  You  talk  good  along  me,  you  give  ani-ani  (food) 
all  same  white  man  —  tea,  soo-gar,  flenty?" 

"  Yes,  plenty." 

"  You  got  some  other  wife  belong  you?  " 

"  No  got,  Kari,  no  want.  Kari  she  stop  all  her- 
self." 

Then,  very  shyly,  and  looking  up  and  down  — 
"You  like  Kari,  flenty?" 

"Plenty!"  I  said,  and  kissed  her.  Then  I  swung 
round  on  my  heel,  and  dodged  the  ebony  wood  spear 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  19 

that  Pona  threw  at  my  back.     I  had  seen  it  in  his 
hand,  and  knew  very  well  it  would  come. 

"  You  black  brute,"  I  said,  walking  up  to  him  — 
"  You're  not  going  to  get  this  little  girl,  if  I  know 
it,  to-morrow  or  any  other  day.  You're  coming  to 
your  precious  mission  now  to  be  shown  up  and  dis- 
graced —  dismissed,  I  should  hope  —  and  Kari's  going 
to  marry  me." 

There  was  some  little  trouble  about  getting  what  I 
wanted,  but  it  ended  all  right.  Pona  was  dismissed, 
and  sent  back  in  disgrace  to  his  village.  Chalmers 
married  Kari  and  me,  after  making  considerable  pro- 
test. He  told  me,  indeed,  that  he  would  not  have 
consented  to  perform  the  ceremony,  had  he  not  been 
convinced  that  Kari  would  come  to  no  good  in  Port 
Moresby,  she  having  already  attracted  more  attention 
from  the  whites  than  was  desirable.  I  thought  him 
the  most  prejudiced  person  I  had  ever  met,  and  I  fear, 
had  not  much  scruple  about  showing  him  my  feelings. 
Perhaps  I  have  changed  my  mind  a  bit  since  then. 

The  missionary  would  not  take  the  five  sovereigns 
I  flung  down  on  his  table,  at  the  end  of  the  short  cere- 
mony. He  gathered  them  up  and  handed  them  back 
to  me,  with  what  I  called,  in  my  own  mind,  a  vinegar 
face. 

"  You'll  probably  be  sorry  for  this  some  day,"  he 
said.  And  that  was  all  our  nuptial  blessing. 

Kari,  in  a  magenta  cotton  frock  that  was  hideously 
unbecoming,  and  a  wreath  of  some  red  flower  that 


20  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

didn't  go  with  the  dress,  enjoyed  the  whole  thing  in- 
describably. Motuan  girls  are  not  very  keen  on  mar- 
rying a  white  as  a  rule;  they  would  rather  have  their 
own  village  life,  than 

"The  burden  of  an  honor  unto  which  they  were  not 
born," 

and  they  really  admire  their  dark  suitors  most.  But 
—  there  are  exceptions.  I  was  popular  with  the  na- 
tives all  round  —  if  I  said  unusually  popular  I  should 
not  be  beside  the  mark  —  and  Kari,  as  a  foundling 
for  whom  no  price  in  arm-shells,  pigs,  or  dog's  teeth 
could  be  demanded,  would  have  had  rather  a  poor 
place  among  the  native  matrons  of  the  village,  who 
rank  very  much  by  the  price  that  their  parents  or  rela- 
tives have  been  able  to  extract  from  the  bridegroom. 

It  was  a  lift,  therefore,  for  Kari  in  every  sense, 
and  she  collected  and  enjoyed  the  envious  glances  of 
the  other  mission  girls,  who  stood  round  the  door  of 
the  box-like  little  church,  peeping  in.  They  followed 
us  down  to  the  jetty  below  the  mission  house,  to  see 
us  embark.  My  cutter  had  been  brought  over  from 
the  town,  and  the  boy  who  had  sailed  her  from  Clare 
Island  with  me  (a  time-expired  plantation  hand,  now 
going  home)  stood  on  the  quay,  all  smiles  and  flowers 
and  cocoanut  oil,  as  we  came  down  the  winding  path. 
The  Bird  of  Paradise  was  decked  out  with  stream- 
ers of  colored  trade  calicoes,  the  wind  was  getting  up, 
and  fluttered  all  her  gay  pennons  cheerfully,  against 
the  amazing  blues  and  greens  of  the  bay.  Kari 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  21 

dumped  the  little  Chinese  cedarwood  box  that  con- 
tained her  trousseau  (grass  skirts,  cocoanut  oil,  arm- 
shells,  fan-shaped  combs,  tortoise  shell  earrings,  pearl 
shell  necklaces)  over  the  bulwarks,  and  sprang  in.  I 
jumped  after  her,  shoved  off,  and  gave  the  tiller  into 
the  little  brown  hand  of  my  bride.  In  another  minute 
I  had  the  sails  hoisted,  the  nor'wester  caught  them 
almost  full,  and  the  Bird  of  Paradise  was  away  on 
her  long  flight  to  Clare  Island. 


CHAPTER  II 

T  HAVE  begun  this  task  of  writing  down  my  un- 
•*•  lucky  story,  and  I  am  not  going  to  "  give  it  best," 
since  that  is  a  thing  I've  yet  to  learn  how  to  do.  But 
there  is  no  denying  that  some  of  it  hurts. 

If  I  could  burn  out  the  memory  of  that  year  on 
Clare  Island  with  a  red-hot  iron,  I  would  do  it  gladly, 
and  never  wince.  Most  of  us,  I  suspect,  could  say 
the  same  about  some  sore  place  in  our  lives, —  and 
that  sore  place  is  much  more  often  a  folly  than  a  sin. 
Repentance!  Remorse!  I  have  repented  the  good 
deeds  of  my  life,  such  as  they  were,  rather  oftener 
than  I  have  repented  the  bad  ones.  But  with  me,  as 
I  suppose  with  other  people,  it's  the  sillinesses  that 
plant  the  real  sting.  There  is  no  use  repenting  those, 
no  use  thinking,  if  you're  religious,  that  they'll  be  for- 
given, and  if  you  are  not,  like  me,  that  you  will  get 
paid  out  for  them  by  Providence  somewhere  or  some- 
how, and  that  anyhow  you  don't  care.  There  is  noth- 
ing wrong  in  a  piece  of  utter  condemned  foolishness, 
and  that's  just  why  you  can  never  shake  loose  from  it, 
but  have  to  carry  it  and  its  consequences  round  the 
rest  of  your  life.  If  I  were  a  good  Christian,  I  sup- 
pose I  should  believe  that  God  forgives  sins.  But  I 
shouldn't  believe  —  nor  does  anyone  —  that  He  for- 
gives want  of  common  sense.  Nothing,  and  nobody, 
yourself  last  of  all,  forgives  that. 

22 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  23 

When  a  white  man  marries  a  native  woman,  he 
commits  the  unforgivable  sin  —  folly.  With  the  best 
of  motives,  and  in  quite  an  agreeable  and  enjoyable 
way,  I  wrecked  my  life  that  day  that  I  threw  down 
the  five  sovereigns  on  the  missionary's  table,  and  had 
them  handed  back  to  me.  And  it  was  none  the  less  a 
wreck,  because,  during  a  long  time,  I  thought  I  had 
acted  with  the  most  consummate  wisdom. 

For  there  is  no  denying  that  I  was  happy.  I  was 
getting  on  towards  thirty  years  of  age,  I  had  knocked 
about  half  the  world,  seen  good  times  and  bad  times, 
and  had  as  much  pleasure  as  most.  One  thing  I  had 
not  had  —  a  home.  And  I  liked  it  surprisingly  well. 
It  seemed  to  me,  in  those  first  few  months,  that  I 
should  never  want  to  leave  Clare  Island  again,  never 
care  for  any  other  place  in  the  world  but  my  own  little 
sunny,  palmy  kingdom  with  its  white  coral  shores,  and 
the  brown  thatched  house  where  Kari  and  I  had  made 
our  nest. 

She  was  a  fascinating  little  creature  —  I  said  in 
those  days,  and  I  say  even  yet,  that  I  never  knew  a 
colored  girl  to  match  her.  If  there  is  any  truth  in 
the  theory  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  Kari  had  cer- 
tainly been  a  charming  Parisienne  in  a  former  state  of 
existence  —  a  pretty,  perhaps  a  naughty,  little  woman 
who  had  been  condemned  to  expiate  a  too  great  devo- 
tion to  her  "  toilette  "  in  one  life,  by  passing  another 
in  the  person  of  a  small  brown  lady  who  had  practi- 
cally no  "  toilette  "  at  all !  No  one  who  knows  the 
extraordinary  variety  of  the  New  Guinea  races,  and 
the  astonishing  likenesses  to  white  types  that  one  finds 


24  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

among  them  (I  myself  know  a  black  Kiwai  overseer 
who  is  a  Jew  Money-lender  to  a  hair,  a  brown  old 
Trobriand  heathen  who  is  simply  a  Presbyterian  par- 
son badly  sunburned,  and  dressed  for  bathing,  and  a 
feathered  cannibal  from  Mekeo  who  might  easily  pass 

for  a  bronze  statue  of  the  famous  General  , 

plumed  headpiece  and  all)  —  no  one  I  say,  who  knows 
the  different  types  of  this  amazing  country,  would 
have  been  astonished  at  Kari's  Frenchness,  odd  though 
it  was. 

She  was  the  daintiest  little  person  conceivable  in 
her  attire,  such  as  it  was,  and  very  choice  indeed  of 
her  striped  grass  kilts,  and  her  bead  necklaces,  and 
the  plaited  armlets  for  her  arms. 

She  had  a  way  of  wearing  those  innumerable  ballet 
skirts  of  hers,  and  swinging  them  from  the  hips  as  she 
walked,  that  was  of  the  very  essence  of  the  boule- 
vards. The  make-up  of  her  brown  little  face  (which 
she  carried  out  quite  openly,  sitting  on  the  veranda 
floor  with  a  trade  looking-glass  set  up  in  front  of  her) 
was  just  as  cunningly  designed,  in  its  lines  of  blue 
paint  following  the  soft  bronze  curves  of  nose  and 
brow,  and  the  naive  little  dabs  of  vermilion  on  cheek 
and  chin,  as  the  touches  of  kohl  and  rouge  that  un- 
derline the  good  points  of  pretty  Lianes  and  Celestines, 
at  the  other  side  of  the  world.  Her  huge  New  Guinea 
mop  of  hair,  decked  out  as  it  generally  was  with  flow- 
ers and  feathers,  and  carefully  dressed  and  oiled,  was 
a  very  fair  copy  of  a  fashionable  white  woman's  tor- 
tured head.  And  there  never  was  Parisienne,  or  white 
woman  of  any  nation,  since  time  began,  so  full  of 


25 

the  natural  original  coquetteries  of  womankind,  as 
Kari. 

She  had  been  a  bit  of  a  belle  at  the  mission,  and 
more  than  Pona  had  wanted  her  and  wooed  her.  This 
made  her,  as  it  always  makes  a  girl,  mischievous  and 
capricious,  fond  to-day,  elusive  to-morrow,  teasing, 
yet  charming.  There  were  days  when  she  would  make 
me  beg  for  everything  I  got  —  my  breakfast,  a  kiss, 
a  clean  shirt,  a  little  native  song  to  pass  the  time  after 
dusk,  a  drink  of  water  from  the  clay  cooler  in  the 
corner,  a  cocoanut,  a  game  of  cards  —  giving  each  and 
all  with  a  mischievous  smile  and  a  lip  of  utter  silence. 
There  were  days  when  she  chattered  like  a  leather- 
head  from  dawn  to  dusk,  ran  after  me  like  a  little  dog, 
and  served  me  like  a  slave.  I  have  known  her  to  keep 
up  the  most  dignified  manners,  copied  and  evidently 
improved  upon,  from  the  white  women  of  the  mis- 
sion, for  a  whole  day,  singing  "  Shall  we  gather  at 
the  River,"  and  other  serious  ditties,  as  she  went  about 
her  work  —  and  at  sunset  I  would  find  her  in  the  yard 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  springing  and  swaying,  ad- 
vancing and  retreating,  and  flinging  her  limbs  wildly 
about,  while  she  sang  in  a  high  metallic  scream  the 
native  welcome  of  the  women  to  the  warriors  coming 
home  with  food  for  a  cannibal  feast.  A  performance, 
it  may  be  added,  that  I  did  not  encourage,  since  Satan 
himself  alone  knew  what  effect  it  might  have  on  some 
of  my  half -broken  "  boys  "  from  the  man-eating  dis- 
tricts of  the  mainland. 

However,  there  were  weeks  at  a  time  when  Kari 
would  be  just  the  little  Kari  that  I  knew  and  liked  best, 


26 

and  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how  she  brightened  up 
the  place.  When  the  mopokes  began  to  moan  in  the 
bush  of  evenings,  and  the  great  lagoon  grew  first 
blood-red,  then  rusty  silver,  and  then  black,  and  the 
cooking  fires  began  to  shine  out  from  the  native  lines 
where  the  boys  were  boiling  their  rice,  it  wasn't  the 
lonely  beach  in  the  twilight  for  Hugh  any  more,  and 
the  solitary  restless  tramp  past  the  happy  little  cot- 
tages of  the  married  quarters.  No,  Hugh  had  a  pretty 
girl  waiting  for  him  on  his  own  veranda,  a  little  laugh- 
ing, piquant  person  who  talked  the  quaintest  pigeon 
English,  and  liked  to  sit  proudly  and  uncomfortably  on 
a  chair  at  the  head  of  his  table,  pouring  out  tea  "  all 
same  white  woman."  .When  I  came  in  from  the  plan- 
tation in  the  middle  of  the  day,  there  used  to  be  a  rush 
of  small  bare  feet  across  the  yard,  and  a  high  drawling 
voice  singing  out  Kari's  watchword  — "  Me  here !  " 
When  I  wanted  someone  to  sail  the  cutter  with  me,  or 
to  take  a  hand  with  a  bit  of  gardening,  or  to  go  out 
in  a  canoe  and  dive  for  shell-fish  on  the  reef,  Kari 
was  always  ready.  "  Me  here,"  she  would  say,  and 
skip  lightly  into  the  boat,  or  pick  up  the  spade.  A 
native  woman  expects  to  work,  and  they  are  all  the 
better  for  not  being  spoiled.  I  did  not  spoil  Kari. 

In  truth,  I  was  happy  enough.  And  I  loved  my 
wife?  Well,  yes,  as  one  loves  a  native  woman.  But 
without  reserve,  or  change,  or  thoughts  of  past  or 
future,  I  did  love,  with  all  that  was  in  me,  my  planta- 
tion. 

It  may  have  been  those  years  of  seafaring  that  gave 
me  the  longing  for  a  little  bit  of  land  of  my  own,  and 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  27 

the  pleasure  in  all  the  commonplace  plantation  round, 
weeding  and  gathering,  lining,  hoeing,  and  planting, 
cutting  and  drying  the  nuts,  bagging  the  finished  copra. 
Even  three  years  of  the  bitter,  salty  life  of  the  fore- 
mast hand  is  enough  to  plant  deep  in  a  man's  heart 
the  love  of  the  kind,  green  earth  and  its  generous,  un- 
counted gifts.  Made  for  a  civilized  life  I  never  was, 
in  spite  of  my  birth  and  education  —  there's  no  city 
berth  I  could  have  had  that  I  would  not  have  broken 
out  of  at  any  cost,  in  a  month  —  but  idleness  was  never 
one  of  my  faults,  though  I  know  well  that's  the  first 
stone  cast  at  one  of  us  by  the  smug  Pharisee  of  the 
top-hat  and  frock-coat.  We  whom  the  Red  Gods  call 
—  as  that  new  writer,  Kipling,  puts  it  —  are  not  the 
idlers.  Following  that  call,  we  come  to  grief  in  a 
hundred  ways,  we  live  with  danger  and  hardship  for 
our  daily  mates,  we  work  our  hearts  out  for  the  barest 
of  livings,  we  die  in  our  boots  as  often  as  not,  and 
no  one  knows  or  cares  when  or  how  we  ended  —  but 
we  don't  idle,  friend  of  the  pasty  cheek  and  bulbous 
waistcoat.  It  is  not  in  our  breed.  And  don't  forget, 
when  you  stop  to  take  breath  after  abusing  those  of 
us  who  have  stepped  outside  the  class  and  occupation 
lines,  that  we  are  making  the  world  —  just  that  — 
for  you. 

I  used  to  work  all  day  on  Clare  Island,  and  the  days 
were  never  long  enough.  What  with  overseeing  the 
boys,  taking  a  hand  myself  with  some  tough  bit  of 
clearing,  trying  the  properties  of  dyewoods  and  gum- 
woods,  and  drug  plants,  that  we  used  to  run  across  in 
the  bush,  keeping  the  cutter  ship-shape  and  Bristol 


28  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

fashion,  as  a  sailor-man  should  do,  and  sailing  her 
about  the  lagoon  to  hunt  for  sponges,  or  beche-de-mer 
(both  "  side  lines  "  in  my  little  business),  adding  to  and 
improving  the  cottage  and  the  cookhouse,  knocking  up 
a  bit  of  furniture  now  and  then,  and  half  a  hundred 
other  odd  jobs,  I  never  had  more  than  time  to  eat  my 
meals  and  sleep.  You  can't  buy  anything  to  speak 
of  in  New  Guinea,  and  I  did  not  want  to  spend  any 
of  my  slowly-growing  hoard,  if  it  had  been  possible. 
So  Kari  and  I  made  everything  we  wanted,  or  did 
without  it.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  day  the  big  bed 
was  finished?  A  fine  fourposter  with  a  double  mat- 
tress stuffed  with  kapok  silk-cotton  off  my  own  trees, 
the  frame  laced  across  with  sinnet  cord  spun  from  co- 
coanut  husk  by  Kari's  clever  fingers,  the  uprights  for 
hanging  the  mosquito  net  shaped  and  carved  by  the 
carpenter  —  that's  Hugh  —  and  the  whole  gorgeous 
piece  of  furniture  varnished  with  gums  out  of  the 
bush,  melted  down  in  over-proof  spirit  distilled  from 
our  own  yams ! 

I  could  never  hope  to  describe  the  pleasure  that  I 
came  to  take  in  all  my  little  tasks  and  contrivances, 
or  the  sweetness  of  everything  that  I  won  at  the  cost 
of  my  own  toil,  and  no  more,  from  the  rich  storehouse 
of  the  tropic  forest.  I'm  not  enough  of  a  philosopher 
to  talk  about  those  things  scientifically  —  though,  in- 
deed, in  my  years  at  sea,  in  that  quiet  "  middle  watch  " 
when  the  sailor  does  most  of  his  thinking,  I  had 
racked  my  brains  a  good  deal  over  the  ends  and  be- 
ginnings and  reason  of  the  things  that  man  was  not 
meant  to  understand.  I  should  guess,  perhaps,  that 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  29 

we  all  feel  the  good  old  earth  has  a  right  to  keep  her 
children,  whether  she  does  or  not,  and  when  one  does 
manage  to  snatch  something  from  her  direct,  without 
having  to  pay  a  middleman  —  even  if  it's  only  cocoa- 
nut  cream  for  your  tea,  instead  of  tinned  milk  from 
a  store,  or  wild  pepper  for  your  parrot  stew  —  one 
feels,  somehow  or  other,  that  one  has  managed  to  col- 
lect a  bit  of  something  that  was  always  due  to  you. 

The  big  trees  that  had  been  on  the  island  when  I 
came  were  bearing  well,  and  I  got  a  fair  price  for  my 
copra  when  I  sailed  down  to  Samarai  with  it.  The 
bit  of  money  (gathered  trading  in  New  Caledonia) 
which  I  had  brought  with  me,  had  been  enough  for 
the  clearing  and  planting  of  near  a  hundred  acres  — 
it  only  cost  the  food  of  the  boys,  and  trade  stuff  to 
pay  them  at  the  rate  of  a  pound  or  two  a  year,  and  a 
stock  of  tools.  Two  years  the  nuts  had  been  planted; 
the  third  was  passing  by.  In  three  more,  there  would 
be  four  or  five  hundred  a  year  to  me  out  of  my  little 
estate,  and  in  five  or  six  after  that,  it  would  be  worth 
half  as  much  again.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  had 
been  so  prudent,  so  sensible,  so  worldly  wise. 

It  seemed  as  if,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
ne'er  do  well  was  losing  the  right  to  his  title. 

And  I  did  not  get  tired  of  my  home.  It  was  six 
months  now  since  I  had  carried  off  Kari  in  the  Bird 
of  Paradise,  and  never  a  white  face  had  I  seen  in  all 
that  time  except  my  own  tanned  leather  countenance, 
looking  at  me  out  of  my  shaving  glass.  (Yes,  I  used 
to  shave,  and  got  Kari  to  cut  my  hair,  and  she  washed 
seven  clean  shirts  a  week  for  me,  and  I  wore  a  tie,  and 


30  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

shoes  and  socks,  too.  I  hadn't  knocked  about  the 
South  Seas  for  nothing,  and  I  knew  what's  the  end  of 
dressing  in  pyjamas,  and  going  uncombed  and  bare- 
foot. Yes,  you  might  think  a  white  man  cannot  lose 
his  race,  but  some  of  us  know  he  can  —  or  what 
amounts  to  it.) 

I  had  not,  as  I  say,  seen  a  white  man  for  half  a 
year,  and  the  truth  is  I  was  not  missing  any.  There 
is  something  immensely  flattering  in  the  deference 
paid  to  a  solitary  white  by  a  crowd  of  dark  skins,  all 
the  world  over.  My  boys  were  a  decent  crowd,  al- 
though they  were  of  a  cannibal  tribe  —  there's  no  bet- 
ter plantation  hand  than  one  of  the  real,  skull-hunting, 
roast-'em-alive-O  cannibal  fellows,  once  you've  tamed 
and  handled  him  a  bit,  and  they  seemed  to  think  a  lot 
of  bad,  untrustworthy,  uncivilized  Hugh  Lynch.  My 
overseer  —  a  Fly  River  chap,  with  a  good  headpiece 
on  him  —  used  to  gather  my  words  like  gold,  and  copy 
everything  I  did,  down  to  my  shellback  roll  in  walking, 
and  the  "  bucko,  mate  "  language  I'd  use  to  smarten 
up  the  boys.  Kari  treated  me  like  God  Almighty 
most  of  the  time;  it  was  true,  she  began  to  show  the 
native  savagery  a  bit,  and  was  more  a  little  wild  cat 
than  a  woman,  at  intervals;  but  I  liked  her  none  the 
worse  for  it.  Nobody  questioned  what  I  said.  No- 
body gave  me  advice.  Nobody  ever  "  wanted  to 
know "  anything  about  anything.  And  the  island 
was  as  lovely  as  a  Kew  gardener's  dream  of  what 
Heaven  would  be,  if  he'd  the  making  of  it.  And,  with 
the  hard  work,  and  the  pure  sea  air,  and  the  quiet 
mind  I  carried,  I  was  so  strong  and  light  that  I  could 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL:  31 

not  rest  in  bed  once  the  first  shimmer  of  the  dawn 
crept  up  out  of  the  lagoon,  but  would  reach  the  center 
of  my  room  in  one  spring  like  a  rock  wallaby,  and 
make  just  ten  steps  of  it  down  on  to  the  shore,  lying  flat 
and  cool  and  ivory-gray  in  the  early  light.  I  have 
run  for  half  an  hour  there  in  the  dawning,  singing  as 
I  ran,  and  sending  the  sand  flying  right  and  left  under 
my  bare  feet  —  scarce  more  conscious  of  my  own  ex- 
istence than  the  swooping  sea-hawks  that  circled  out 
beyond  the  reef  —  just  happy  because  it  was  another 
day,  and  because  I  was  alive,  and  young,  and  very 
strong.  ... 

At  the  end  of  six  months,  Sanderson's  schooner 
came. 

I  had  been  expecting  her  for  some  time.  My  stores 
were  running  low,  and  the  trader  I  dealt  with  in 
Samarai  had  promised  to  send  up  a  fresh  lot  by  the 
first  opportunity.  The  Orokolo  would  be  going  up 
to  Buna  Bay  about  the  time  I  should  be  wanting  sup- 
plies, and  I  might  rely  on  getting  the  goods  by  her. 

She  was  late,  as  I  say  —  a  schooner  always  is  — 
but  my  storehouse  was  not  empty  when  the  tall,  white 
sail  showed  out  in  the  fierce  blue  of  the  sky  beyond 
the  barrier  reef,  one  hot,  still  morning  in  February 
I  had  never  seen  the  Orokolo  or  her  owner,  and  I 
didn't  know  that  I  was  very  anxious  to,  though  I 
wanted  those  cases  of  meat  and  bags  of  rice  badly 
enough  to  make  me  welcome  the  sight  of  the  pearly 
triangle  in  the  sky,  and  to  chafe  at  the  light  winds  that 
brought  the  ship  so  slowly  into  the  lagoon.  It  may 
have  been  what  old  wives  call  a  "  warning,"  or  it  may 


32  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

have  been  a  mere  dislike  to  having  my  sovereign  roy- 
alty of  sole  white  man  disturbed  —  I  cannot  say  — 
but  I  swore  at  Sanderson  in  my  heart,  as  I  went  down 
to  my  little  coral  jetty,  and  hoped  fervently  that  he 
was  badly  wanted  at  Buna  Bay,  and  would  have  to 
make  sail  again  before  sundown.  I  didn't  want 
him. 

The  ship's  boat  was  out  by  this  time,  and  skimming 
across  the  water.  She  was  at  the  jetty  in  a  minute  or 
two,  and  in  another  minute  I  was  shaking  hands  with 
a  tall,  rather  well-dressed  man  of  about  thirty,  whom 
I  thought  at  the  moment,  and  still  think,  to  have  been 
the  very  best-looking  piece  of  male  humanity  that  ever 
I  set  eyes  on. 

Sanderson  could  have  gone  nowhere  without  as 
many  eyes  turning  to  look  at  him  as  if  he  had  been  a 
traveling  prince.  He  was  one  of  those  chromo-col- 
oring  men,  all  eyes  and  hair,  with  a  skin  as  white  as 
a  girl's,  in  spite  of  the  New  Guinea  sun,  and  a  mat  of 
gold  curls  on  his  head  like  an  actress's  wig.  I  don't 
care  for  those  large  blue  eyes  in  a  man  myself,  but  I 
must  say  there  was  nothing  soft  or  effeminate  about 
his  —  they  were  like  hard,  blue  stones  set  tight  in  his 
head, —  and  I  am  sure  nine  men  out  of  ten,  and  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  thousand, 
would  have  called  him  splendidly  handsome.  He  was 
tall,  as  I  have  said,  and  very  well  set  up  —  not  that 
I  couldn't  have  broken  his  neck  for  him,  if  I  had 
wanted,  but  then,  I  am  said  to  be  the  strongest  man 
in  the  western  Pacific.  And  I  would  not  have  ex- 
changed an  eighth  part  of  my  strength  for  the  half, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  33 

or  the  whole,  of  his  poisonous  good  looks  —  ugly  red- 
haired  brute  though  I  am. 

Bert  Sanderson,  big,  handsome,  black-hearted  Aus- 
tralian, lying  in  your  lonely  New  Guinea  grave  under 
the  sobbing  casuarina  trees,  I  have  no  hard  feeling 
against  you  in  my  heart  to-day.  You  are  gone  where 
all  things  are  made  even  (so  the  good  people  tell  us) 
and  you  have  got  your  wages,  whatever  they  may  be. 
I  make  no  guess  at  that,  as  I  make  none  at  what  may 
be  due  to  myself,  by-and-by,  if  there  is  really  anything 
that  lies,  at  the  last,  beyond  the  Great  Silence.  But 
I  took  no  chances,  Bert  Sanderson.  I  gave  you  your 
dues  in  this  life,  and  the  Devil,  or  the  angels  or  the 
dark  of  utter  annihilation,  may  have  you  now,  for  all 
that  it  matters  to  me. 

Sometimes,  sitting  here  through  the  long  days  of 
idleness  that  eat  into  one's  very  heart,  watching  the 
curl  of  the  breakers  far  out  on  Basilisk  reef  —  the 
breakers  that  beat  in  from  the  free,  wide,  wandering 
sea  —  I  wonder  what  my  life  would  have  been  if  the 
Orokolo  had  never  sailed  into  the  lagoon  of  Clare 
Island.  I  should  have  missed  the  worst  troubles  of 
all  my  troubled  history;  Kari  would  be  sitting  on  my 
palm-thatched  veranda  still,  not  so  bright  or  so  pretty, 
but  quaint,  and  lovable  yet;  Siri,  the  Kiwai  overseer, 
would  be  speeding  up  the  boys  to  their  work  with 
shouts  of  mangled  sailor-English,  in  the  lazy  hours  of 
late  afternoon,  instead  of  lying  as  he  lies  to-day,  dead 
and  eaten  by  the  burrowing  land-crabs,  underneath  the 
sand  of  the  island  shore.  Bert  Sanderson  would  be 


34  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

trading  about  the  Louisiades  as  he  used  to  do,  there'd 
be  no  white  man  gnawing  his  soul  out  in  Port  Moresby 
jail  .  .  .  and  She  —  Stephanie  — 

No,  I  can't  write  about  her  now.  I  shall  have  to, 
by-and-by.  Time  enough  when  it  can't  be  helped. 
But  this  much  I  will  say  —  I  would  not  even  wipe  out 
the  black,  burning  history  of  the  last  two  years,  that 
has  set  a  brand  upon  me  till  I  die,  if  it  were  to  be  at 
the  cost  of  never  having  seen,  never  loved,  never  suf- 
fered by  her. 

A  host  can  hardly  be  rude  to  a  guest  because  he 
thinks  the  latter  too  good-looking.  I  greeted  Sander- 
son civilly,  and  asked  him  to  come  up  to  the  house. 

The  little  place  was  looking  well  that  day,  and  I 
was  proud  to  show  it  off.  I  never  was  much  of  a 
hand  at  describing,  but  I'd  like  to  picture,  if  I  could, 
how  all  those  new,  bright  avenues  of  young  palms, 
with  the  grass  walks  between  them,  and  a  bit  of  blue 
sea  set  like  a  stone  in  a  ring  at  the  end  of  every  ave- 
nue, looked  in  the  afternoon  as  we  crossed  the  island 
to  the  house.  I  had  spared  a  few  of  the  big  forest 
trees  when  clearing,  and  some  of  them  —  the  kind  that 
has  the  immense  buttressed  roots  standing  out  like 
plank  partitions  —  were  half  covered  with  pink  and 
white  and  purple  orchids,  and  masses  of  bird's-nest  fern. 
And  the  coral  trees  on  the  shore,  though  they  were 
as  bare  of  leaves  as  a  mountain  tribesman  of  clothes, 
had  bunches  on  bunches  of  flowers  like  scarlet  fingers 
all  over  them.  Some  of  the  flowers  had  dropped  into 
the  lagoon,  and  were  sailing  about  in  the  bright  green 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  35 

water.  And  there  were  huge,  white,  frilly  shells,  as 
big  as  a  soup  tureen,  and  crimson  shells  lined  with 
mother-o' -pearl,  and  branches  of  coral  like  confec- 
tioners' work  in  sugar,  lying  about  on  the  sand  among 
more  of  the  red  flowers,  and  a  lot  of  fallen  hibiscus 
blossoms,  just  like  gold  bells  with  ruby  clappers  inside. 
There  was  a  hot,  aromatic  sort  of  smell  from  the  trees, 
and  you  could  hear  the  chip-chipping  noise  of  the 
boys  at  work  clearing  on  the  far  end  of  the  island, 
soft  and  monotonous  enough  to  put  you  to  sleep. 
We  had  some  little  way  to  go  to  the  house,  and  you 
may  be  sure  I  added  on  to  it  so  as  to  take  the  visitor 
round  by  my  walk  of  six-foot  yellow  and  scarlet 
crotons  set  in  a  hedge,  as  gorgeous  as  a  double  slice 
of  sunset  slid  down  out  of  the  sky,  and  along  my 
avenue  of  paw-paws,  each  twice  the  height  of  a  man, 
and  all  loaded  with  green  and  yellow  fruit  bigger  than 
vegetable  marrows.  I  must  confess  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers  in  a  paw-paw  avenue  (you  get  the  flower 
and  the  fruit  at  the  same  time,  but  on  different  trees) 
is  powerful  enough  to  make  a  sensitive  person  sick 
and  giddy,  but  there  aren't  many  sensitive  people  in 
British  New  Guinea.  My  granadillas  had  grown  as 
large  as  melons,  and  filled  the  air  with  a  rich,  fruity 
scent,  as  we  passed  the  trellised  arbor  over  which  I 
had  trained  the  vine;  and  you  might  have  thought  a 
hundred  people  had  been  hanging  out  Christmas-tree 
decorations,  if  you  had  come  unawares  on  the  plot 
of  lime  trees  covered  with  their  own  round,  golden 
balls,  and  dangling  all  over  with  the  purple  eggs  of  the 
passion- fruit,  that  has  run  wild  through  half  the  bush 


36  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

of  the  island.  The  approach  ended  up  with  a  coral 
pathway  —  and  if  there  is  a  better  bordering  to  a  neat 
walk  of  white  coral  gravel  than  a  double  row  of 
large  pineapples,  all  in  full  bearing,  I  do  not  know  it. 

As  for  the  little  brown  house,  with  its  sheltering 
veil  of  way-flowered  stephanotis  on  the  sunny  side 
of  the  veranda,  and  the  bright  blue  Lady's  Mantle 
looking  in  at  the  windows,  and  the  yellow  trumpets 
of  the  alamanda,  and  white  stars  of  jasmine,  and 
scarlet  trailers  of  D'Alberti  creeper,  hiding  almost 
every  bit  of  the  thatch,  I  promise  you  it  was  worth 
looking  at  —  all  the  more  so,  as  the  pretty  brown 
bird  that  lived  in  this  pretty  nest,  had  come  out  on 
the  veranda  to  greet  us  as  we  turned  up  the  pineapple 
walk,  and  was  standing  in  the  full  light  of  trie  wester- 
ing sun,  her  face  newly  painted  with  lines  of  annatto 
red  and  washing  blue,  her  brown  skin  satiny  with 
the  scented  cocoanut  oil  that  she  had  rubbed  in,  a 
row  of  snowy  frangipanni  flowers  set  like  stars  in 
the  black  cloud  of  her  hair.  She  had  put  on  every 
necklace  she  owned  —  bead,  dog's  tooth,  shell,  shell- 
money,  mother-o'-pearl  —  and  she  had  added  so  many 
extra  ballet  skirts  to  her  usual  equipment  that  she 
looked  more  like  an  animated  pen-wiper  than  anything 
else.  But  nothing  could  disfigure  her  unique  wild 
prettiness,  nor  the  grace  of  her  beautiful,  half-naked 
figure,  every  flowing  curve  underlined  and  brought 
out  by  the  cunning  tattoo,  as  a  white  woman  under- 
lines with  skillful  pencil  the  brightness  of  her  eyes, 
that  he  who  runs  may  read  them. 

Sanderson  and  I  had  been  talking  business,  briefly 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  37 

and  curtly,  all  the  way  up  from  the  boat  —  so  much 
weight  of  stores  to  be  delivered,  so  much  freight  to 
pay,  so  much  copra  to  be  taken  down  to  Samarai  — 
but  when  we  came  in  sight  of  the  house  he  broke  off, 
began  twirling  his  curly  yellow  mustache  in  a  patron- 
izing way,  and  remarked : 

"  You've  got  a  nice  little  humpy  here  all  right !  " 

"  I've  taken  some  trouble  with  it,"  I  said. 

"  And  a  nice  little  girl  to  keep  you  company,"  he 
went  on,  adding  a  coarse  joke. 

"  She's  my  wife,"  I  said  instantly. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  she  was  your  grandmother," 
laughed  Sanderson,  suggestively. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand,"  I  said,  rather 
slowly  and  distinctly,  stopping  under  the  arch  of 
climbing  pink  convolvulus  that  ended  the  coral  path. 
"  I  married  Kari  at  the  L.  M.  S.  mission  in  Port 
Moresby,  six  months  ago." 

"  Oh,  you  did! "  was  Sanderson's  only  comment, 
barbed  with  a  sneer  of  contempt.  And  he  turned  and 
looked  me  over,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What  sort  of  a 
fool  is  this  ?  " 

Straightway  I  began  to  excuse  myself  —  for  hav- 
ing acted  decently,  if  foolishly. 

"  I  didn't  want  a  raw  little  savage  brought  up  on 
human  flesh,"  I  said.  "  I  wanted  a  tidy  girl  who 
could  be  of  use  about  the  house.  Of  course  that  had 
to  be  a  mission  girl." 

"Of  course,"  said  Sanderson.  I  never  knew  a  man 
in  my  life  who  had  such  a  knack  of  making  a  harm- 
less remark  sound  like  an  insult. 


38  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Neither  of  us  spoke  again  till  we  reached  the  house. 
I  presented  Kari  to  Sanderson  with  as  much  formality 
as  if  she  had  been  a  white  woman,  and  the  little 
Papuan  who  had  stolen  the  soul  of  a  Parisienne,  rose 
to  the  situation  instantly,  holding  out  her  small  brown 
hand  with  quite  a  society  air,  and  smiling  a  smile  that 
was  pure  Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  "  Q,"  she  under- 
stood (that  was  Kari's  best  attempt  at  my  Christian 
name)  did  not  care  for  the  stranger.  Well,  she  would 
treat  him  with  reserve,  but  one  must  do  the  house 
credit  —  perhaps  all  the  more  so,  if  the  newcomer 
were  of  the  carping  kind. 

So  the  small  brown  Martha  went  off  to  busy  her- 
self with  household  cares,  and  Sanderson  and  I  sat 
on  the  veranda  to  smoke,  and  drink  a  whisky  or  two, 
and  talk  copra,  while  tea  was  getting  ready. 

I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  forget  a  moment  of  that 
evening,  if  I  live  till  I  am  a  hundred.  The  rain-like 
patter  of  the  restless  palms,  growing  dark  against  the 
scarlet  sky  —  the  immemorial  sighing  of  the  reef  far 
out  at  sea  —  the  stealthy  scuffle  of  some  creeping 
thing,  land-crab,  snake,  or  iguana,  edging  up  to  the 
house  under  cover  of  the  growing  dusk  —  filled  in 
long  spaces  of  silence,  during  which  we  looked  at 
one  another,  and  our  eyes  said  many  things  that  had 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  commonplace  talk  lag- 
ging so  heavily  on  our  lips.  The  eye  talk  of  men 
to  women  has  been  written  about  many  hundred  thou- 
sand times;  every  futile  scribbler  thinks  himself  an 
authority  on  that  pretty  subject.  But  of  the  silent 
speech  that  passes  between  two  men  when  the  devils 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  39 

of  rivalry  and  envy  are  prompting  in  each  ear,  and 
the  poisonous  fungus  of  sudden  hate  is  cracking  the 
ground  beneath  their  feet  —  of  that,  the  hack  har- 
nessed to  the  ink-pot  knows  nothing.  How  should 
he?  He  has  ink  for  blood,  and  the  black-sepia-squirt- 
ing cuttle-fish  of  the  seas  is  not  colder  than  he. 

I  had  seen  the  look  that  Sanderson  cast  at  my  wife 
—  the  greedy  smile  parting  his  lips  as  she  moved 
about  the  veranda.  I  knew  just  now  his  ear  was  set 
to  catch  each  sound  from  within  the  house,  while 
we  sat  and  talked  outside.  I  read  the  fits  of  musing 
into  which  he  sank  —  the  quick,  appraising  glance  that 
flashed  over  my  muscles,  and  dropped  to  his  own  big 
knotted  hands,  the  knitting  of  the  brow,  the  fatuous 
twirling  of  the  yellow  mustache.  I  could  have  killed 
him  as  he  sat  there,  for  the  dreams  that  I  saw  in 
his  eyes,  as  the  light  waned  low,  and  the  birds  grew 
silent  in  their  nests,  and  always  that  unseen  creeping 
thing  crept  closer  to  the  house,  under  cover  of  the 
fallen  palm-leaves  that  were  shivering  harshly  now, 
beneath  the  cold  night  wind  that  blew  from  the  home- 
less sea. 

.  .  .  It  takes  but  a  small  thing  to  jar  a  man's 
nerves,  when  they  are  strained  almost  to  breaking. 
The  noise  of  that  creeping  creature  became  suddenly 
unbearable.  I  broke  away  from  the  veranda,  and 
jumped  down  onto  the  shore,  without  waiting  to  go 
round  by  the  steps.  It  was  a  big  fall,  but  I  lighted 
easily,  and  picked  up  a  stone  —  a  good  deal  bigger 
than  the  occasion  demanded.  Perhaps  you  might  call 
it  a  bowlder,  more  accurately.  I  had  won  many  a 


40  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

bet  in  South  America  by  handling  smaller  pebbles  than 
that. 

"  What  the  infernal  regions  are  you  doing?  "  asked 
Sanderson's  voice  pettishly.  He  leaned  over  the  rail, 
and  saw  me. 

"  My  word !  " —  the  exclamation,  though  choked 
back  under  his  breath,  floated  down  to  me  in  the  dusk. 

"  Going  to  kill  a  snake,"  I  said,  with  what  I  think 
must  have  been  a  nasty  look.  I  kicked  the  dried 
palm-leaves,  and  out  it  came  —  not  a  crab,  or  an 
iguana,  but  a  snake  indeed,  and  one  of  a  bad  kind,  so 
far  as  the  light  allowed  me  to  see.  It  didn't  try  to 
defend  itself,  but  began  a  rapid  retreat  towards  the 
bush.  .  .  . 

Well,  if  any  man  —  perhaps  I  might  say  any  two 
men  —  who  visits  Clare  Island  cares  to  heave  up  a 
round  coral  bowlder  on  the  shore  by  the  big  chestnut 
tree,  he  will  find  the  smashed  skeleton  of  a  "  tiger  " 
about  five  feet  long.  It  was  some  yards  away  from 
me  when  I  threw,  but  that  didn't  save  it. 

"Did  you  kill  him?"  asked  Sanderson  rather  su- 
perfluously, as  I  came  up  on  the  veranda  again.  His 
eyes  met  mine  in  the  light  of  the  hurricane  lamp  from 
the  room. 

"  I  always  do,"  I  said. 

"Always  do  what?" 

"  Kill  snakes.     Will  you  come  in  to  tea?  " 

Kari  had  done  her  best  for  us,  and  it  was  a  very 
good  meal  that  we  sat  down  to,  under  the  light  of 
the  swinging  hurricane  lamp,  with  the  little  brown 
lady,  proud  yet  serious,  seated  at  the  top  of  the  table 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  41 

in  the  midst  of  a  Catherine-wheel  of  ballet  skirts. 
Sanderson  ate  heartily,  and  praised  Kari's  cooking  to 
her  in  Motuan,  her  own  language,  watching  to  see 
if  I  understood.  I  suppose  it  was  rather  boyish  of 
me  to  address  my  guest  pointedly  in  Motuan,  by  way 
of  showing  that  I  did,  but  the  truth  is  that  Sanderson 
made  me  more  inclined  to  boast  of  everything  I  had, 
was,  and  knew,  than  anyone  I  had  ever  met.  I 
really  do  not  know  what  the  reason  of  this  was,  I 
only  give  the  fact.  There  are  certain  coarse  natures 
who  do  have  this  effect  on  almost  everyone  they  meet, 
I've  noticed,  and  assuredly  a  good  deal  of  the  dis- 
like one  feels  for  them  is  due  to  the  way  they  have 
of  dragging  you  down  from  your  own  ideals  of  de- 
cent conduct.  I  had  spent  the  first  half  hour  of  San- 
derson's visit  showing  off  my  possessions,  the  next 
displaying  my  strength,  and  now  I  was  trying  to  make 
a  display  of  my  knack  of  picking  up  languages.  It 
fairly  sickened  me,  and  I  fell  silent,  picking  the  bits 
of  cocoanut  out  of  my  fruit  salad  to  chew  them  ab- 
sent-mindedly, while  I  stared  at  the  captain  of  the 
schooner. 

The  talk  —  sustained  entirely  by  the  visitor  — • 
dropped  into  English  again,  and  Sanderson  began  re- 
citing all  the  latest  news.  The  Greek's  lugger  had 
been  lost  in  the  Trobriands.  There  was  a  new  par- 
son at  the  Port  Moresby  mission  —  and  then  some 
remarks  on  missions  which  it  would  do  no  good  to 
anyone  to  repeat.  Two  Australian  prospectors  had 
been  eaten  in  the  Louisiades,  and  the  natives  were 
going  about  wearing  their  jawbones  slung  as  lockets. 


42  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

The  new  governor  was  expected  any  time  now,  in 
Port  Moresby. 

"  He's  a  retired  naval  captain,  isn't  he?  "  I  asked. 

Sanderson  sailed  on  without  answering,  as  his  way 
was. 

"  Got  a  daughter,  I  believe,  and  he's  bringing  her 
up  with  him  —  the  condemned  idiot!  They've  built 
him  a  decent  house  all  right,  but  I  shouldn't  think 
a  la-di-da  fine  London  lady  would  find  much  to  her 
taste  in  Port  Moresby.  I  hear  she's  full  of  airs  and 
graces.  If  there's  anything  on  earth  I  can't  stand, 
it's  those  —  conceited  people  out  from  '  Home/  think- 
ing they  can  teach  us  everything." 

He  knew,  of  course,  that  I  was  English  —  or  rather, 
Irish  —  myself,  but  it  did  not  suit  him  to  remember 
the  fact. 

"  I'll  see  his  Excellency  before  very  long,"  I  put 
in,  trying  to  keep  my  temper.  "  I  want  to  take  up  a 
few  acres  opposite  here  on  the  mainland  —  it's  sago 
swamp,  and  will  feed  the  boys  —  and  of  course  I'll 
have  to  run  down  to  port  about  it." 

"What  did  that  woman  of  yours  put  in  the  curry? 
It's  better  than  my  boy  makes  it,"  was  the  guest's 
polite  reply. 

His  mat  of  gold  curls  was  shining  wonderfully 
under  the  lamp,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing,  for  a 
moment,  but  the  delight  it  would  be  to  twist  one's 
fingers  into  that  close  mop,  and  knock  the  head  that 
grew  it  hard  on  the  veranda  floor.  But  I  controlled 
myself,  and  replied  that  my  wife  —  emphasizing  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  43 

word  —  used  fresh  turmerice  out  of  the  bush,  I  be- 
lieved. 

The  meal  ended  soon  after;  there  was  little  more 
talk.  Sanderson  had  grown  suddenly  silent,  and 
seemed  to  be  pondering  over  something.  We  smoked 
without  talking  on  the  veranda  while  Kari  cleared 
away,  and  I  wondered  if  I  had  dreamed  all  the  odd 
things  I  had  been  fancying  earlier  in  the  evening,  for 
neither  then  nor  later,  when  my  wife  was  busy  about 
the  living  room  putting  up  a  rough  cot  for  the  visitor, 
and  hanging  a  new  mosquito  net  from  the  rafters  by 
cords,  did  Sanderson  take  the  least  notice  of  her. 

"  I  must  be  going  a  bit  dotty,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"  Most  people  do,  in  these  out-of-the-way  places. 
That  trip  to  port  will  do  me  all  the  good  in  the  world  ; 
I'm  glad  I've  planned  it." 

Next  morning  Sanderson  and  I  were  both  hard  at 
work  overseeing  the  boys  as  they  landed  my  goods 
from  the  schooner,  and  took  the  copra  sacks  down 
the  jetty  to  the  boat.  We  tallied  the  things  as  they 
came  and  went,  and  got  through  the  job  early.  By 
dinner  time  —  twelve  o'clock  —  my  little  tin  store  was 
full,  and  the  copra-house  was  empty.  We  went  back 
to  dinner  on  better  terms  with  each  other.  I  was 
satisfied  with  Sanderson's  smart  and  accurate  way 
of  doing  business  and  overseeing  boys,  and  he  seemed 
much  more  inclined  to  make  himself  civil,  indeed,  he 
was  apparently  laying  himself  out  to  that  end. 

And  again  I  wondered,  as  we  tramped  along  the 
croton  walk,  and  through  the  paw-paw  avenue,  more 


44  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

oppressively  sweet  than  ever  in  the  full  blaze  of  the 
mid-day  sun  —  had  I  been  mad  the  night  before  ? 

Sanderson  left  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  to  Buna  Bay,  he  said,  and  the  wind  was  nearly 
fair.  I  cannot  say  I  regretted  his  departure,  or  that 
I  felt  any  liking  whatever  for  him  —  but  somehow, 
I  felt  rather  ashamed  of  myself  to-day,  not  being  sure 
that  I  had  behaved  quite  decently  to  my  guest.  I 
saw  him  down  to  his  boat,  and  shook  his  hand  as  he 
got  in.  ...  That  was  one  of  the  things  I  re- 
membered —  afterwards. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  Kari  was  standing  on 
the  veranda,  watching  the  schooner  clear  through  the 
break  in  the  reef.  As  the  white  sails  swept  into  the 
open  sea,  she  turned  away,  and  spat  violently  on  the 
ground. 

I  felt  self-righteous  at  having  got  over  my  fit  of 
rudeness,  and  of  course  had  to  reprove  her.  She 
was  a  white  man's  wife,  I  told  her,  and  white  men's 
wives  did  not  express  dislike  in  such  an  uncivilized 
way. 

Kari  made  a  wicked  little  face,  and  picked  up  her 
fishing  basket.  "  Plenty  no  good,  that  fellow  cap'n," 
she  observed,  going  down  on  to  the  shore.  "  Q  he 
good  man,  all  same  God.  I  go  catsing  trab  for  tea 
belong  Q." 

Then,  most  unaccountably,  she  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  III 

/  I  ^HINGS  were  not  quite  the  same  on  the  island 
•••     after  the  Orokolo's  call. 

Of  course,  it  was  not  her  fault  that  the  rainy  sea- 
son, which  ought  to  have  been  over,  suddenly  re- 
turned upon  us  with  an  untimely  burst  of  fierce 
squalls,  and  turned  the  island  into  a  sopping  sponge 
of  wet  bush,  for  several  dreary  weeks.  Neither  had 
the  schooner's  call  anything  to  do  with  the  trouble  that 
the  boys  began  to  give  just  then  —  that  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  one-half  of  them  accused  the  other  half 
of  practicing  sorcery  against  them,  and  endeavored 
to  exorcise  the  unholy  influence  with  spades  and 
clearing-knives.  I  stopped  the  mischief  before  it  had 
gone  very  far,  but  it  worried  me  for  the  time,  and 
may  have  made  my  temper  uncertain.  Everyone  who 
has  lived  long  in  New  Guinea  knows  that  it  has  a 
peculiar  effect,  and  not  the  best,  upon  tempers.  I  do 
not  think  Kari  can  have  found  me  as  indulgent  as 
usual,  during  those  weeks  of  wet  and  worry. 

Then  Kari  took  ill,  and  I  forgot  everything  else. 
She  was  very  near  to  dying  for  the  best  part  of  a 
week  and  took  some  time  to  pull  round.  It  was  then 
that  I  knew  for  the  first  time  there  had  been  hope  of  a 
child  to  share  our  island  exile  —  a  hope  that  was  not 
to  be  fulfilled. 

45 


46  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

It  made  me  fonder  than  usual  of  poor  little  Kari, 
and  as  gentle  with  her  in  her  weakness  as  a  rough 
man  could  contrive  to  be.  I  brought  another  woman 
in  to  do  the  work  of  the  house,  so  that  I  could  spend 
half  the  day  hunting  over  the  island  for  dainty  birds 
and  fish  to  tempt  Kari's  appetite,  and  the  other  half 
sitting  beside  the  great  bed  we  had  carved  and  car- 
pentered together,  fanning  the  mosquitoes  away,  and 
telling  stories  to  my  wife.  Hard  driven  for  some- 
thing to  amuse  her,  I  had  tried  a  nursery  tale  one  day, 
and  after  that  we  had  to  go  through  the  whole  round 
—  Cinderella,  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk,  Red  Riding 
Hood,  Puss  in  Boots,  and  as  many  more  as  I  could 
think  of.  Kari  loved  them;  she  would  lie  for  hours 
at  a  time  listening,  in  the  dim  brown  twilight  of  the 
inner  room,  her  great  mop  of  hair  making  a  dark 
circle  on  the  pillow,  her  little  bronze  hands  and  thin 
arms  with  their  clanking  pearl-shell  bracelets,  stretched 
outside  the  gay  patchwork  quilt.  As  the  sun  grew 
low,  the  westering  rays  used  to  creep  under  the  eaves 
of  the  thatch,  and  slant  across  the  bed  in  long  spears 
of  dusty  gold,  then  the  light  would  fade,  swiftly  as 
it  fades  in  equatorial  countries,  and  Kari  would  give 
a  little  shiver,  and  creep  nearer  to  me.  There  could 
be  no  stories  of  giants  and  dragons  after  sundown; 
they  made  my  wife  tremble  'with  fright,  eagerly 
though  she  demanded  them  in  the  gay  blaze  of  noon. 
I  must  tell  her  then  about  the  missionary's  daughter 
with  the  glass  shoes,  who  had  to  be  back  at  the  mis- 
sion house  by  eight,  but  nevertheless  married  the  son 
of  the  captain  of  a  man-of-war  —  or  about  the  great 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  47 

puri-puri  man  (sorcerer)  who  made  himself  look  like 
a  Pusi,  and  walked  about  in  miner's  boots  —  but  the 
story  about  the  great  black  dugong  that  came  up  out 
of  the  sea  and  married  a  chiefs  daughter,  and  after- 
wards took  off  his  dugong  hide  and  told  her  that 
he  was  a  man  after  all  —  that  she  would  hear  when  the 
morning  came, —  it  would  make  her  "  flenty  flighten  " 
now. 

Nursery  tales,  and  yarns  from  the  Arabian  Nights, 
locally  colored  to  make  them  comprehensible,  passed 
away  the  days  of  my  wife's  convalescence  pleasantly 
enough,  and  she  was  soon  strong  enough  to  get  up 
and  go  about  again.  Everything  was  as  it  had  been 
before,  to  all  seeming,  and  yet  — 

I  found  myself  glad  that  the  child  had  not  lived, 
and  unpleasantly  anxious  for  the  future.  The  real- 
ization of  what  this  marriage  meant  was  beginning 
to  come  home,  though  I  did  not  understand  it  at 
the  time.  The  thought  of  a  little  half-caste  boy  or 
girl  —  a  child  with  woolly  hair  and  flat  nose,  that 
would  nevertheless  bear  my  own  likeness  —  worse, 
might  even  look  like  my  dear  dead  mother,  or  my 
father  —  was  almost  revolting  to  me. 

Still,  I  remained  fond  of  Kari,  and  she  seemed 
attached  to  me.  She  was  not  so  bright  or  so  merry 
now-a-days,  and  she  used  to  have  inexplicable  fits  of 
sulks,  or  bursts  of  crying,  like  the  fit  of  tears  she  had 
given  way  to  on  the  day  the  Orokolo  went.  But 
her  recent  illness  furnished  a  ready  excuse,  and  I 
was  not  hard  on  the  poor  little  girl,  even  when  she 
tried  my  patience  a  good  deal.  After  all,  a  woman 


48  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

is  —  just  a  woman  —  and  one  need  not  expect  too 
much. 

And  when  Kari  was  quite  strong  again,  I  began  to 
get  ready  for  my  trip  to  Port  Moresby.  I  was  really 
anxious  to  get  a  grant  of  that  piece  of  sago  country : 
it  would  be  invaluable  to  my  plantation,  and  save 
me  no  end  of  expense.  The  boys  preferred  a  slimy 
mess  of  native  sago  to  flour  or  biscuit  any  day,  and 
I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  go  on  spending  money 
uselessly  on  expensive  store  goods,  when  over  there 
on  the  mainland  there  were  many  square  miles  of 
good  sago  swamp,  which  no  one  needed.  Of  course, 
if  I  wanted  to  avoid  a  raid  on  my  island  that  would 
not  leave  a  nut  on  a  tree,  or  a  soul  alive,  I  should 
have  to  buy  the  country  from  the  native  tribes,  after 
getting  the  grant;  but  that  would  only  mean  a  few 
boxes  of  tobacco,  and  half  a  dozen  bolts  of  calico,  at 
most. 

Certainly,  the  land  hunger  so  well  known  to  pioneers 
was  beginning  to  get  hold  of  me. 

Blue  and  green  and  gold  and  snow,  the  beach  and 
the  island  shone  in  the  sun  like  a  handful  of  jewels, 
the  day  I  went  away.  The  full  splendor  of  the  equa- 
torial noon  beat  on  the  brown  thatch  of  my  little 
home,  turning  it  almost  white,  as  I  stood  to  wave 
a  last  good-by  to  Kari  at  the  bend  of  the  pineapple 
walk.  A  crowd  of  Mambare  boys,  decked  out  with 
feathers  and  leaves,  were  beating  loudly  on  their 
iguana  skin  drums,  as  they  waited  for  their  mid- 
day meal,  in  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  palms.  Some- 


WHEN  THE  RED  'GODS  CALL)  49 

thing  in  the  whole  scene, —  perhaps,  as  superstitious 
folk  might  say,  something  in  myself  that  made  me 
"  fey  "  that  day  —  impelled  me  to  sing  as  I  went  down 
between  the  perfumed  paw-paw  trees  to  the  jetty,  and 
qf  all  songs,  it  was  "  The  Old  Kentucky  Home  "  that 
came  to  my  lips.  I  shouted  it  out  at  the  top  of  my 
voice,  swinging  my  arms  as  I  walked  — 

"  The  sun  shines  bright  on  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
'Tis  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay, 
The  corntop's  ripe,  and  the  meadow's  in  the  bloom, 
And  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day." 

What  was  the  next  verse?  I  could  not  remember, 
so  I  went  on  with  the  chorus,  and  then  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  think;  it  worried  me  that  I  had  for- 
gotten. I  was  out  of  the  paw-paws  and  the  crotons 
now,  and  passing  through  a  bit  of  ground  that  we 
had  not  yet  cleared.  The  reed-grass,  tall  and  thick 
and  close  on  ten  feet  high,  rose  like  a  wall  on  either 
side  of  the  track;  the  heat,  here  in  this  canyon  of 
vegetation,  away  from  the  fresh  breath  of  the  sea,  was 
overpowering.  I  stood  where  I  was,  and  took  out 
my  handkerchief  to  mop  my  face,  while  I  tried  again 
to  remember  the  song  —  worrying  myself,  as  men 
who  live  in  lonely  places  do,  over  a  trifle  that  was 
scarce  worth  it. 

Then,  from  some  unseen  retreat  in  the  depths  of  the 
reed-grass  stems,  came  a  thin,  harsh  voice,  singing  — 

"  Dey  hunt  no  more  for  de  possum  and  de  coon 
By  de  meadow,  de  hill,  an'  de  shore, 
Dey  sing  no  more  by  de  grimmy  of  de  moon 
On  de  bent  by  de  ole  cabin  door. 


50  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  De  day  go  by  like  a  s'adow  on  de  heart, 
All  sorrow,  where  all  was  deright, 
For  de  time  has  come  when  de  darkies  has  to  part, 
Den,  my  ole  Kanucka  'ome,  good-night ! " 

I  could  not  say,  as  people  do  in  novels,  that  in  spite 
of  the  heat  the  words  sent  a  shiver  through  me,  for 
they  didn't,  but  they  made  me  feel  suddenly  and  un- 
accountably enraged. 

"  Siri !  "  I  yelled.  I  knew  it  must  be  Siri,  for  none 
of  the  other  hands  had  been  long  enough  with  white 
people  to  pick  up  their  songs  as  the  Kiwai  had  done. 
"  Siri!  Why  the  devil  aren't  you  at  work?  " 

"  By-'n'-by,  I  eating  dinner,  Taubada !  "  came  a  re- 
proachful reply,  followed  by  a  rustling  in  the  grass. 

"  Well,  go  and  eat  it,  and  be  hanged  to  you!  "  was 
my  good-by  to  the  faithful  darky.  When  Siri  and 
I  met  next,  there  was  five  feet  of  solid  cold  coral 
sand  between  us,  and  if  he  was  singing  songs  at  all, 
it  must  have  been  Moody  and  Sankey  hymns,  in  a 
white  nightshirt  and  a  wreath  of  palm.  (I'd  seen 
him  in  both,  walking  about  the  plantation,  often 
enough  to  be  reasonably  certain  that  he  would  be  at 
home  in  the  rig-out;  and  as  for  harps,  if  you  gave 
Siri  a  Jew's  harp,  and  plenty  of  leisure  to  lie  in  the 
sun  and  play  it,  he'd  ask  no  more  of  time  or  eter- 
nity.) 

Well,  well!  One  may  make  fun,  as  the  Irishman 
must  do,  when  he  knows  it's  a  choice  most  of  the  time 
between  laughing  and  crying.  But  I  have  often 
wished  since  then,  that  I  had  said  good-by  more  kindly 
to  my  decent  big  black  Kiwai  overseer. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  51 

The  lad  who  was  to  go  with  me  was  ready  waiting 
on  the  deck  of  the  cutter,  and  nothing  remained  but 
to  loose  the  painter  and  hoist  the  sail.  I  looked  back 
to  see  if  Kari  had  followed,  but  there  was  not  a  sign 
of  my  little  brown  bird.  She  had  been  crying  half  the 
night  and  all  the  morning,  and  had  hardly  been  able 
to  stand  when  I  left  the  house,  so  I  scarcely  ex- 
pected to  see  her.  Yet  I'm  not  sure,  if  she  had  by 
any  chance  come  down  to  the  jetty,  that  I  would  not 
have  picked  her  up  and  dropped  her  then  and  there 
over  the  gunwale  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise  —  in  spite 
of  my  resolution  against  taking  her  down  to  Port 
Moresby,  which  was  not  the  best  of  places  for  a 
pretty  native  girl,  respectably  married.  In  Clare 
Island,  the  other  women  would  take  care  of  Kari  as 
native  women  of  the  East  End  do  take  care  of  "  grass 
widows,"  in  their  husbands'  absence ;  in  port,  I  should 
have  had  to  leave  her  alone  half  the  time,  with  brutes 
like  Sanderson  always  on  the  prowl  —  but  still  — 

Still,  something  that  was  not  reason,  not  fore- 
thought, something  that  burrowed  like  a  blind  mole 
in  unseen  depths  of  the  mind  and  never  faced  the 
light  —  kept  tugging  at  my  heart  as  the  Bird  of  Para- 
dise spread  her  white  wings  and  flitted  out  to  the 
open  sea.  Now  that  I  was  fairly  away,  I  wished  I 
had  taken  Kari  with  me. 

I  had  time  to  forget  about  presentiments  and 
fancies  before  I  reached  the  end  of  my  voyage.  The 
southeast  trades  had  set  in  by  this  time,  but  they 
knocked  off  for  a  holiday  before  I  had  got  through 
China  Straits,  and  the  rest  of  my  voyage  was  a  mad- 


52  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

dening  succession  of  calms  and  head  winds,  with  just 
an  occasional  slant  from  the  faithless  southeaster.  I 
called  at  Samarai  for  provisions,  and  it  was  well  I  did, 
for  the  southeaster  did  not  spring  up  until  I  was 
nearly  a  month  out  from  Clare  Island,  and  just  making 
port.  I  had  never  known  anything  like  it  at  that  time 
of  year,  and  it  worried  me  a  bit  —  I  should  have  been 
ready  to  start  home  by  that  time. 

Still,  in  the  out-of-the-way  countries  one  learns 
patience  —  one  has  to  —  and  I  put  Clare  Island  out 
of  my  mind  for  the  present.  Siri  could  be  depended 
on  to  keep  the  weeding  up,  and  I  was  doing  no  plant- 
ing just  then.  There  were  plenty  of  provisions  in  the 
store,  Kari  was  well  and  hearty,  and  I  hadn't  any 
need  to  worry.  I  told  myself  that  several  times. 

Sanderson  was  not  in  port  after  all;  they  said  he 
had  gone  down  to  Cooktown  to  have  his  boat  new 
coppered.  I  was  glad,  I  hated  the  sight  of  him  and 
his  girlish  curls.  Men  generally  do  dislike  the  curly- 
headed  male;  I  don't  know  why. 

My  application,  I  found,  could  not  be  considered 
until  the  Governor  arrived,  so  there  was  another  de- 
lay. Captain  Hammond  might  come  in  a  day  or  two, 
might  not  be  heard  of  for  a  month  —  there  was  no 
telling.  The  new  Government  steam  yacht  had  gone 
down  to  Cairns  to  fetch  him,  but  it  was  not  known 
whether  he  was  yet  in  Sydney. 

His  daughter,  I  heard,  was  certainly  with  him,  in- 
credible though  it  seemed.  He  was  a  widower  with 
only  that  one  child,  and  no  doubt  he  wished  to  have 
her  company.  It  seemed  a  selfish  thing  to  bring  a 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  53 

fashionable  London  girl,  delicately  reared,  to  such  a 
savage  spot  as  British  New  Guinea  —  she  would  al- 
most certainly  be  invalided  with  fever,  we  thought, 
and  the  wild  surroundings  of  her  home  would  terrify 
her  half  out  of  her  life. 

They  are  beginning  to  study  the  causes  of  malaria 
in  these  days  I  hear,  and  it  is  even  prophesied  that 
whoever  lives  into  the  twentieth  century  will  see  that 
scourge  of  the  tropics  fairly  under  control.  One  may; 
believe  as  much  or  as  little  of  that  as  one  likes.  It  is 
certain,  at  all  events,  that  New  Guinea  of  to-day  is  an 
excellent  place  to  "  catch  your  death  in,"  and  all  of 
us  —  the  few  whites  of  Port  Moresby  and  the  dis- 
trict beyond  —  were  agreed  that  it  was  a  scandalous 
thing  of  the  Governor  to  bring  a  delicate  young  Eng- 
lish girl  into  such  a  country.  We  were  also  agreed, 
however,  that  it  was  an  ill  wind  that  blew  nobody 
good  and  that  the  sight  of  a  petticoat  in  Port  Moresby 
would  be  as  refreshing  as  a  trip  to  Cooktown,  to  us 
half -savage,  white-womanless  creatures. 

Indeed,  we  were  all  awaiting  the  Merfie  England's 
arrival  with  a  keenness  of  interest  surely  never 
aroused  by  the  advent  of  a  mere  official  in  New  Guinea 
before. 

I  was  putting  up  with  Worboise,  an  elderly  man 
who  had  been  into  as  many  odd  corners,  and  seen  as 
many  strange  things,  as  any  white  in  New  Guinea  — 
and  that  was  saying  a  good  deal.  He  lived  in  a  little 
tin  shanty  down  on  the  beach,  and  had  a  Chinese  cook- 
boy  who  fed  us  rather  well.  Worboise  himself  was 
badly  touched  with  the  weakness  of  the  pioneer  and 


54 

the  lonely  man  —  interminable  "  yarning  " —  he  never 
cared  whom  he  talked  to,  or  rather  at;  myself,  the 
nearest  native,  the  Chinese  cook-boy,  it  was  all  the 
same  —  when  he  got  started  on  a  coil  of  his  endless 
autobiography,  he'd  unwind  it  to  the  last  thread  or 
perish. 

I  did  not  much  mind  it  after  supper  in  the  evening, 
when  one  was  sitting  on  the  sand  outside  the  veranda- 
less  door,  smoking  trade  tobacco,  and  watching  the 
palm-tree  tops  draw  themselves  out  in  Indian  ink 
against  the  immense  scarlet  sweep  of  the  sunset.  But 
early  in  the  morning  —  well,  no  man  ought  to  be  ex- 
pected to  listen  to  a  yarn  ten  fathom  long  about  head- 
hunting and  pearl-shell  thieves,  before  he's  had  his 
breakfast. 

That  was  why  I  found  myself  one  morning  at  half- 
past  six,  on  the  top  of  the  craggy  little  hill  that  over- 
hangs the  township,  looking  out  to  sea.  It  was  the 
only  place  one  could  be  safe  from  Worboise's  unend- 
ing to-be-continued-in-our-next. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  how  the  great  Pacific  looked 
that  day  in  the  glassy  calm  of  early  morning,  while 
the  boisterous  "  trades  "  were  still  asleep  —  how  far, 
far  out  the  shining  silver  swept  beneath  the  blue,  to 
that  utmost  curving  rim  of  the  world  where  the  out- 
bound ships  go  down.  I  sat  on  the  rocks  that  top 
the  hill,  for  an  hour  or  more,  looking  across  the  bay, 
and  thinking  "  long,  long  thoughts."  ...  It 
came  to  me  then,  somehow,  that  if  I  had  a  true  home 
or  country  in  the  world,  it  was  that  far  sea-line  — 
that  and  nothing  else.  That's  the  spot  of  earth's 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  55 

surface  that  we  vagabonds  know  and  love  best  of  all 
—  the  promised  land  towards  which  we  always 
turn.  .  .  . 

When  I  was  a  child,  they  used  to  tell  me  that  if  I 
could  only  follow  up  the  rainbow  to  its  foot,  I  should 
certainly  find  a  crock  of  gold  there  —  fairy  gold. 
.  .  .  If  one  of  us  wanderers  with  the  salt  drop 
in  the  blood,  and  the  foot  that  never  rests  till  it's 
pointed  straight  and  stiff  beneath  the  daisies,  or  the 
black  leaf-mold  of  the  jungle,  or  the  desert  sand, 
were  to  find  himself  some  day  on  the  very  horizon 
verge  that  no  man  ever  wins  to,  would  he  meet  the 
master  of  us  all,  the  Red  God  of  roaming,  face  to 
face? 

Tennyson  knew  a  little  about  these  things  —  I  have 
often  wondered  how  he  did  know,  that  smooth,  not 
to  say  smug,  singer  of  "  May  Queens  "  and  "  Walks 
to  the  Mail."  There  must  have  been  a  corner  some- 
where in  his  mind  that  was  kin  to  Us  —  a  very  small 
corner,  O  bard  of  the  Respectable  and  Nice !  "  The 
Voyage "  and  "  Ulysses  "  were  all  you  could  spare 
for  us,  though  you'd  hundreds  of  pages  for  the  tea- 
party  guests  on  the  vicarage  lawn,  and  the  walks  by 
the  "  woid  "  (that  sounded  quite  wild  and  uncivilized 
to  you,  didn't  it?)  and  the  pearls,  and  the  curls,  and 
the  faintly-smiling  Adelines.  Well,  as  for  us, 

"  111  or  well,  or  sick  or  sound, 
We  follow  that  which  flies  before." 

because  we  know  that, 


56  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

'  All  experience  is  an  arch  where  through 
Gleams  the  untraveled  world,  whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  as  we  move." 

And  we  are  grateful  for  those  few  lines,  since  they, 
and  what  goes  before  and  after  them,  are  to  us  the 
song  of  life. 

.  .  .  I  started  out,  I  think,  to  say  that  by  and 
by  I  saw  the  Merrie  England  from  the  top  of  the 
hill. 

When  I  caught  the  tiny  smear  of  smoke  on  the  edge 
of  the  sea,  I  knew  that  it  would  not  be  visible  to 
anyone  in  the  township  for  another  quarter  of  an 
hour;  so  I  sat  there  rather  gloatingly  enjoying  my 
"  private  view,"  as  the  little  smear  became  a  big  one, 
and  a  black  speck  showed  out  underneath  it,  and  two 
needle-points  of  masts,  with  a  pin-point  of  funnel  be- 
tween them,  became  visible  to  my  sea-trained  eyes,  a 
long  way  off  yet.  At  this  point,  they  saw  the  vessel 
down  below,  and  instantly  the  wild  yell  of  "  Sail-O !  " 
that  always  attends  the  incoming  of  a  ship  in  an 
oceanic  colony,  burst  out  all  down  the  coast,  spread- 
ing along  the  mile-and-a-half  from  Port  Moresby  to 
the  native  village  a  good  deal  quicker  than  a  forest 
fire.  In  half  a  minute,  the  village,  the  next  village, 
the  one  after  that,  Port  Moresby  itself,  and  the 
isolated  hills  around  the  town  (where  a  surprising 
number  of  natives  are  usually  wandering  about  un- 
seen), were  answering  back  yell  after  yell  as  if  a 
besieging  army  had  suddenly  overwhelmed  the  valley. 
The  excitement  died  down,  as  usual,  in  a  few  minutes, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  57 

and  then  from  my  eyrie  on  the  hill,  I  could  see  the 
whites  beginning  to  buzz  in  and  out  of  their  houses 
like  ants  when  you  poke  a  stick  into  a  nest.  They 
ran  out  with  flags,  and  decorated  the  half-dozen  stores 
and  offices  of  the  "  town,"  they  hung  lengths  of  red 
and  white  trade  calico  on  their  veranda  rails,  they 
sent  boys  up  the  palms  to  cut  big  twenty-foot  leaves, 
and  tie  them  round  the  doorway  of  the  Government 
office.  Every  little  vessel  in  the  bay  ransacked  its 
flag  locker,  and  made  itself  as  gay  as  was  possible  at 
a  few  minutes'  notice.  It  was  astonishing  to  see  how 
much  was  done  in  the  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
that  passed  before  the  leisurely  little  steamer  slid 
alongside  the  jetty,  and  made  fast;  indeed,  the  little 
town  looked  quite  festive. 

By  this  time,  the  southeaster  had  waked  up,  as  if 
roused  out  by  the  stirring  "  Sail-O !  "  and  now  all  the 
palm-tree  heads  were  tossing  and  streaming  in  the 
strong,  cool  river  of  wind,  and  the  wonderful  pea- 
green  and  peacock-blue  paintings  of  mountains  and 
valleys  and  groves  that  had  covered  all  the  wide 
glassy  reaches  of  the  great  harbor  half  an  hour  be- 
fore, were  broken  up  into  cheerful  little  dancing 
waves.  The  "  trade  "  had  found  out  the  two  Union 
Jacks  on  the  Merrie  England  —  one  on  the  main-mast, 
and  one  at  the  stern  —  and  was  fluttering  them  gayly, 
as  the  ship  rounded  the  harbor  point.  No  mistake 
about  it,  our  new  Governor  was  on  board.  I  made 
haste  to  get  down  now,  and  take  my  place  on  the 
jetty. 

The  last  Governor  had  been  an  amiable  nobody, 


58  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

scarcely  strong  enough  for  the  place,  and  he  had  left 
us  unregretted.  There  were  rumors,  however,  to 
the  effect  that  we  might  find  our  sailor  Governor 
something  of  a  King  Stork,  after  the  King  Log  of 
whom  we  had  been  relieved,  and  we  all  strained  our 
eyes  eagerly  towards  the  smart,  slim  white  figure 
standing  on  the  forward  deck,  surrounded  by  a  little 
group  of  officials,  and  accompanied  by  —  yes,  she 
had  come!  It  was  a  girl  —  a  young  girl  —  a  girl  in 
a  blue  dress  —  a  girl  "  beautiful  like  an  angel,"  as 
the  susceptible  little  French  recruiter,  Leon  Cruchet, 
declared,  while  the  Merrie  England  was  still  so  far 
off  that  you  could  not  have  told  whether  the  object  of 
his  admiration  was  black  or  white. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the 
more  stared  at  when  the  gangway  was  up,  and  the 
Government  Secretary  was  tripping  across  it,  a  com- 
pany smile  on  his  face,  and  an  address  of  welcome  in 
his  hand,  and  the  populace  of  Port  Moresby,  amount- 
ing to  about  twenty,  was  making  as  much  of  a  loyal 
crowd  as  it  could,  spread  out  over  the  jetty.  I  think, 
in  spite  of  the  strong  interest  we  all  felt  in  the  plucky 
daughter,  the  father  received  most  of  our  attention 
at  first.  Afterwards  there  was  another  story  to  tell! 

Captain  Hammond  certainly  looked  the  typical 
naval  officer  all  over,  seeming  as  much  in  place  on 
the  smart  white  deck  of  the  yacht  as  a  palm  seems  at 
home  on  a  coral  beach.  It  was  rather  difficult  to 
fancy  him  administering  a  shore  "  command,"  but  that 
was  not  because  His  Excellency  didn't  look  as  if  he 
could  administer  anything  or  anybody,  so  far  as  dis- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  59 

cipline  went.  Rather  small,  very  thin,  very  much 
dried  up  with  salt  and  sun,  a  face  like  a  hatchet 
cased  in  leather,  a  figure  like  a  bit  of  watch-spring, 
steel-rivet  eyes  and  a  granite  chin  —  this  was  our  new 
ruler  in  outward  appearance. 

"  A  hard  case,  Hughie,"  commented  old  Worboise, 
who  had  been  amazingly  silent  —  for  him. 

"  He'll  make  some  of  the  blackbirding  lot  sit  up,  I 
dare  say,"  I  answered.  "  Look  at  the  daughter,  Wor- 
boise—  isn't  it  criminal  to  bring  a  bit  of  china  like 
that  out  here?" 

She  was  standing  by  her  father  while  he  read  the 
address  of  welcome  and  made  a  lengthy  reply  that 
nobody  could  hear.  She  was  rather  taller  than  the 
little  Governor,  but  hardly  showed  it,  being  slight  and 
very  graceful  in  figure.  As  far  as  we  could  see  from 
the  jetty,  she  was  fair-complexioned,  with  dark  hair, 
and  (I  thought)  blue  eyes.  She  held  herself  exceed- 
ingly well,  and  her  slight,  well-bred  hands  and  feet 
were  charmingly  gloved  and  shod.  Her  dress  was 
full  of  fashionable  complications,  but  it  was  all  so  lacy 
and  frilly  and  dainty,  and  so  smartly  worn  (there's  a 
wonderful  difference  in  the  way  women  wear  their 
clothes)  that  she  did  not  look  or  move  at  all  awk- 
wardly in  it.  Her  curly  fringe,  and  those  deep  blue 
eyes  of  hers  (I  had  decided  now  that  they  were  un- 
mistakably blue)  were  shaded  by  the  shell-curved  brim 
of  a  little  blue  bonnet  tied  on  with  strings,  and  she 
carried  a  parasol  that  looked  as  if  it  were  made  of 
froth  and  spiders'  webs. 

I  got  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  jetty,  and  looked  at 


6o 

her  —  looked  at  her.  She  made  me  think  of  Christ- 
mas annuals  and  colored  pictures  —  of  primroses  com- 
ing out  in  green  lanes  under  a  soft,  cool,  milky  sun  — 
of  wet  streets  with  shop  lights  shining  on  the  pave- 
ment at  four  o'clock,  and  pretty  boots,  and  furs,  and 
rosy  faces  beaten  with  the  wind  flashing  by  out  of 
the  shadows  —  of  lilac  smelling  fresh  in  the  rain  on 
heavenly  spring  mornings, —  of  rose-shaded  lamps 
shining  on  crystal  and  silver,  and  the  even,  pleasant 
murmur  of  the  talk  of  well-bred  people  about  a  civ- 
ilized dinner-table  —  of  many  things  that  were  no 
longer  in  my  life,  and  never  would  be  again,  since  I 
had  paid  them  all  away  .  .  . 
For  what? 

They  were  coming  ashore  now,  and  I  drew  back  — 
I,  the  rough,  uncivilized  planter  and  trader,  who  lived 
in  a  hut,  and  was  married  to  a  black  wife,  must  not 
press  too  closely  upon  the  path  of  His  Excellency's 
daughter  ...  a  white  lady,  delicate  and  dainty 
as  one  of  the  pale  sweet  flowers  of  her  own  far  North. 
No  tropical  hibiscus  or  flame-flower  this,  but  a  snow- 
drop, a  spring  anemone.  .  .  .  How  white  she 
was!  Her  neck,  under  the  low  ruffle  of  snowy  lace 
that  she  wore,  was  just  the  color  of  the  lace  itself ;  her 
ear,  half  hidden  in  the  mass  of  curls  that  all  girls  wear 
in  these  days,  was  like  a  little  pearly  shell  just  off  the 
reef.  And  the  curls  —  well,  the  probability  that  she 
had  put  them  up  in  paper  at  night  made  them  all  the 
more  admirable  to  us,  who  had  seen  nothing  but  friz- 
zled wool  for  so  long. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL      61 

She  followed  her  father  closely  through  the  little 
group  of  residents  and  the  crowd  of  natives  behind  — 
turning  her  small,  well-dressed  head  to  right  and  left, 
and  smiling  in  acknowledgment  of  the  thin  but  hearty 
cheer  that  greeted  the  party.  She  did  not  look  a  day 
over  nineteen,  but  she  was  as  perfectly  self-possessed 
as  any  dowager  of  fifty.  No  bread-and-butter  miss 
from  the  country  was  this ;  a  London  belle,  finished  in 
the  ways  of  the  world,  and  used  to  admiration  as  to 
daily  bread,  was  our  Governor's  daughter,  or  I  was 
much  mistaken. —  And  yet,  how  unspoiled  and  sweet ! 

The  foolish,  monstrous  draperies  that  she  carried  so 
gracefully,  rustled  past  me,  leaving  behind  the  very 
faintest  suggestion  of  perfume  —  as  if  a  fresh  hill- 
wind  had  somewhere  blown  over  a  bank  of  wild  white 
roses,  and  carried  away  a  memory  of  the  delicate 
scent  in  its  heart.  Then  the  reek  of  cocoanut  oil  from 
the  native  crowd  rose  up  and  blotted  it  out. 

She  was  gone. 

The  crowd  scattered  as  quickly  as  it  had  collected. 
The  pier  grew  empty;  the  steamer  backed  away  to 
her  moorings  in  mid-harbor.  I  was  left  standing  by 
myself  in  the  sun  and  the  tearing,  homeless  wind  that 
beat  in  from  the  empty  sea.  "  By  myself  " —  yes  — 
the  cocoanut  oil-smelling  crowd  was  not  yet  all  gone; 
black  woolly  heads  and  brown  limbs  moved  close  be- 
side me.  But  all  the  same,  the  white  man  was  — 
alone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TT  was  nearly  another  fortnight  before  I  got  away. 
•*•  On  the  day  I  sailed  out  of  Port  Moresby  harbor, 
I  had  been  nine  weeks  absent  from  Clare  Island. 

The  grant  of  land  had  been  made,  I  had  had  a  brief 
interview  with  the  new  Governor,  and  had  been  more 
than  confirmed  in  my  first  opinion  of  him  —  in  the 
end.  At  first,  I  must  confess  I  thought  him  some- 
thing very  near  a  fool.  I  am  not  fond  of  talkative 
men,  and  Captain  Hammond  (who  received  me  in  his 
Port  Moresby  office)  overwhelmed  me  with  a  perfect 
deluge  of  what  I  rudely  classified  as  cackle,  about 
anything  and  nothing,  while  he  searched  through  the 
papers  on  his  shelves  to  find  my  letters  of  applica- 
tion. The  weather,  the  temperature,  the  wind-shield 
screen  at  the  back  of  the  office,  the  distance  from  the 
village  to  the  town,  the  speed  of  the  Merrie  England, 
the  thefts  of  eggs  from  the  Government  henhouse 
by  snakes  and  iguanas,  all  contributed  to  the  stream  of 
chatter,  which  issued  forth  as  thickly  encumbered  with 
capital  "  I's "'  as  a  babbling  river  with  stones.  I 
threw  in, an  answer  or  a  remark  here  and  there  care- 
lessly, though  not  without  the  respect  due  to  His  Ex- 
cellency's position.  He  was  just  a  tiresome  official 
bore,  I  thought,  and  in  all  probability  no  more  of  an 
acquisition  to  the  country  than  those  who  had  gone 
before  him. 

62 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  63 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  being  quite  wearied 
with  His  Excellency's  cackle  about  the  eggs  and  the 
fowls  and  the  depredations  of  the  carpet-snakes  — 
for  which  he  seemed  to  think  his  Port  Moresby  offi- 
cials in  some  mysterious  way  responsible  —  I  looked 
up  from  the  watch-chain  I  was  carelessly  fingering, 
and  met  the  Governor's  eyes. 

I  never  thought  him  a  fool  again. 

Whatever  emotions  a  fool  may  excite,  fear  is  not 
one  of  them,  and  there  was  that  in  those  eyes  of 
flinty  gray,  that  made  me  understand  why  Captain 
Hammond's  ship  Had  formerly  been  known  as  the 
smartest  man-of-war  on  the  Australian  station. 

I  realized,  too,  that  during  the  somewhat  lengthy 
interview,  while  I  thought  I  had  been  listening  to  a 
poor  and  shallow  mind  revealing  itself,  that  very  mind, 
behind  the  cloak  of  a  windy  wordiness,  had  been 
watching  me  reveal  myself  with  the  freedom  and 
carelessness  of  one  who  feels  himself  practically 
alone.  .  . 

What  was  the  verdict?  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea, 
any  more  than  I  had  an  idea  why  I  was  so  passion- 
ately anxious,  all  of  a  sudden,  for  this  man's  good 
opinion.  But  that  it  had  been  passed,  I  knew;  and 
that  nothing  would  alter  it  in  a  hundred  years,  I 
guessed. 

It  seemed  that  I  was  at  all  events  approved  enough 
to  be  trusted  with  the  piece  of  land  I  had  applied  for. 
The  grant  was  made  —  still  in  a  flood  of  cackle  — 
the  papers  handed  over,  and  I  found  myself  outside 
the  office,  feeling  pleased,  bewildered,  and,  somehow 


64  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

or  other,  at  the  bottom  of  all,  a  little  cold  at  heart. 
Something  had  disappointed  me,  but  for  the  life  of 
me,  I  could  not  tell  what. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sun  was  set- 
ting, which  is  to  say  that  the  whole  western  sky  and 
sea  resembled,  more  than  anything  else,  the  explosion 
of  some  colossal  volcano,  and  the  outpoured  floods  of 
flame  and  lava  at  its  feet.  The  man  who  can  describe 
a  New  Guinea  sunset  of  the  southeast  season  has 
yet  to  be  born.  Opposite  the  amazing  splendors  of 
the  west,  a  livid  yellow-green  light  flooded  the  grassy 
valley  that  lay  in  the  lap  of  the  hills,  bringing  out  in 
wonderful  clearness  every  detail  of  track  and  swamp 
and  tree,  though  all  were  at  least  a  mile  distant.  And 
through  the  yellow  glow,  as  I  stood  on  the  veranda 
of  the  Governor's  office,  I  could  see  very  far  away,  a 
dark  figure  flying  swiftly  towards  the  sunset.  It  was 
the  Governor's  daughter,  out  for  her  evening  ride.  I 
had  not  seen  her  since  she  landed.  ...  It  was  a 
stormy  sunset,  I  had  known  there  would  be  rain;  the 
skies  wept  heavily  as  I  and  the  Bird  of  Paradise  put 
out  to  sea. 

There  should  have  been  only  head-winds  at  that 
time  of  year,  but  New  Guinea  is  too  near  the  equator 
for  its  seasons  to  be  absolutely  reliable,  and  we  had 
actually  a  fair  wind  the  greater  part  of  the  way. 
Eastward  and  southeastward  down  the  coast  we  ran 
—  that  wonderful  coast  which  is,  to  my  mind,  un- 
equaled  for  sheer  beauty  by  any  other  in  the  world. 
Sometimes  we  kept  far  out  at  sea,  to  avoid  the  dan- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  65 

gerous  reefs  of  the  shallow  waters,  and  then  we  could 
see,  in  the  early  morning  hours,  before  the  mists  had 
gathered,  how  the  green  foot-hills  of  the  shore-line 
sprang  back,  wave  on  wave,  to  the  immense  blue  ram- 
parts of  the  high  main  range.  There,  as  I  and  per- 
haps two  other  white  men  knew,  you  could  climb  and 
climb  thirteen  thousand  feet,  up  to  where  the  forget- 
me-nots  and  wild  strawberries  grow  as  they  do  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  mountain  rivers  run  all  fringed  with 
ice.  Far  back,  these  ranges  were  painted  with  the 
most  wonderful  hues  of  Prussian  blue  and  purple, 
fading  on  the  summits  to  a  pure  speedwell  shade  that 
seemed  more  than  half  transparent.  And  everywhere, 
near  and  far,  rounding  the  limbs  of  the  giant  peaks 
of  the  Owen  Stanley  Range,  curtaining  the  mountain 
precipices  that  overhung  the  still  blue  bays,  flowing  in 
and  out  of  the  deep  dark  valleys,  and  checkering  all 
the  country  with  vivid,  velvety  lights  and  shades, 
spread  the  unconquered  "bush" — the  mantle  of 
primeval  forest  under  which  New  Guinea  hides  her 
secrets. 

I  never  experienced  such  a  wind  as  we  had,  before 
or  since;  just  as  much  as  the  cutter  could  safely 
stand,  yet  never  too  much,  it  carried  us  as  steadily 
as  an  auxiliary  engine  down  the  Kapa-Kapa  coast, 
past  Cloudy  Bay  and  Orangerie  Bay,  past  Fife  Bay 
and  round  South  Cape,  and  into  Samarai, —  not  fair 
all  the  way,  of  course,  but  fair  enough  to  keep  us 
steadily  going.  And  when  we  were  through  China 
and  East  Cape  Straits,  and  heading  back  northwest- 
ward up  the  coast,  the  southeaster  that  should  have 


66  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

been  blowing  all  the  time  took  on  duty  again,  and 
swept  us  finely  through  the  D'Entrecasteaux.  We 
ran  past  Normanby,  gunwale  under,  all  afternoon, 
with  the  water  jabbering  along  the  keel,  and  the  sails 
humming  above  our  heads.  Four  thousand  feet  the 
big  island  towered  above  us,  laced  with  ribbons  of 
white  waterfall  all  down  its  mighty  flanks ;  the  cocoa- 
palms  stood  thick  as  rushes  on  its  white  coral  shores, 
and  bent  like  rushes  to  the  steady  streaming  of  the 
gale.  Good  Enough,  a  fairy  castle  of  hyacinth  blues 
and  ivories,  nine  thousand  feet  high,  swung  away  to 
our  starboard  side,  miles  and  miles  distant,  as  we 
headed  in  for  the  northern  mainland,  towards  Cape 
Endiadere.  And  still  the  wind  kept  up,  and  the  sun 
shone  all  day,  and  the  shouting  seas  raced  behind  us, 
flinging  fire-spangled  spume  and  snow.  It  was  a 
breathless  voyage,  with  little  sleep  or  rest  for  either 
the  boy  or  myself,  every  stitch  of  canvas  set  day  and 
night,  the  cutter  lying  over  all  the  time  so  that  one 
could  not  get  footing  on  her  deck,  the  log  heaved 
every  hour  or  so  to  see  how  the  knots  were  piling  up 
.  .  .  a  killing  trip,  yet  what  sailor  could  have 
resisted  taking  full  advantage  of  such  splendid 
luck? 

We  made  Clare  Island  early  one  forenoon,  the  wind 
beginning  to  drop  a  little,  and  the  sky  growing  brassy 
with  heat.  I  remember  I  was  glad  to  see  the  long  low 
streak  of  blue  creeping  up  out  of  the  sea  again,  and  I 
swung  my  arms  about  (the  boy  being  at  the  tiller) 
and  sang  "  White  Wings "  for  my  own  welcome 
home.  I  haven't  the  heart  to  write  down  the  words 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  67 

of  the  song;  I  have  wished  ever  since  I  could  forget 
them. 

The  cutter  ran  slowly  up  to  the  land,  the  wind  fall- 
ing more  and  more  as  we  came  in.  We  were  under 
the  lee  of  the  island  now,  and  every  moment  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  cry  of  "  Sail-O !  "  starting  out  of 
the  bush.  The  plantation  hands  never  missed  signal- 
ing the  approach  of  a  boat,  and  Kari  was  seldom  many 
seconds  behind  them. 

But  Clare  Island,  as  we  ran  up  to  the  jetty,  and 
lowered  the  sails,  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  shore.  Two  melancholy, 
mop-headed  pandanus  trees,  drooping  gloomily  on 
their  long  wooden  stilts,  were  the  only  objects  that 
broke  the  bare  expanse  of  sand.  The  coral-rock  jetty 
stood  up  stark  and  unoccupied  in  the  smiting  glare  of 
the  mid-day  sun.  The  bolt  of  uncleared  bush  behind 
was  black  and  still  as  some  primeval  forest  of  the 
unknown  mainland  ranges. 

I  got  out  of  the  boat  and  stood  on  the  blazing  jetty. 
It  seemed  to  beat  up  in  waves  beneath  my  feet.  I 
told  Garia  I  was  feeling  ill,  and  sat  down  on  a  stone. 

"  Masser,  what  for  no  one  he  come?  "  asked  Garia. 

I  jumped  up  to  my  feet,  and  answered ;  but  it  wasn't 
Garia  I  spoke  to,  and  I  should  not  care  to  write  down 
what  I  said.  I  think  I  was  mad  for  the  moment,  be- 
cause then  —  I  don't  know  how  —  the  truth  hit  me, 
and  hit  me  hard.  I  knew. 

When  I  began  to  run  down  the  bush  track,  Garia 
did  not  follow.  He  squatted  down  on  the  shore  be- 
yond the  jetty,  and  began  to  cry.  I  believe  the  poor 


68  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

ignorant  savage  had  read  my  mind  like  a  book  — 
and  what  he  read  had  terrified  his  childish  soul.  I 
heard  his  voice  as  I  ran  down  the  track,  between  the 
reed-grass  walls  — "  Masser,  no  more,  no  more !  " 

In  the  pigeon  English  of  Papua,  "  no  more  "  means 
simply  "  stop,"  but  I  had  forgotten  that,  and  the  cry 
followed  me  like  the  voice  of  some  creature  of  ill 
omen,  prophesying  disaster. 

I  broke  from  the  forest  like  a  hunted  brute,  and 
headed  for  the  paw-paw  walk.  There,  in  full  speed, 
running  as  I  had  never  run  in  my  life,  I  suddenly 
stopped  short  —  so  short  that  I  had  to  catch  at  the 
nearest  thing  to  keep  myself  from  falling. 

It  was  a  black  and  broken  paw-paw  stem. 

There  was  no  paw-paw  walk;  only  a  double  row  of 
burned  stumps.  There  were  no  young  cocoanuts ;  the 
ground  was  covered  with  charred  leaf -ribs  and  ashy 
boles,  where  they  had  been.  The  site  of  the  house 
marked  simply  by  a  black  oblong,  blurred  with  half- 
consumed  palm-leaves. 

The  next  thing  that  I  can  remember  is  the  look  of  a 
pair  of  miserable  filthy  hands  —  mine  —  scraping 
among  the  ashes  of  the  house  for  something,  anything 
that  was  not  destroyed,  while  somebody  whose  name 
was  Hugh  Lynch  kept  saying  to  himself  over  and  over 
again  — "  God,  God,  God !  "  Hugh  didn't  believe  in 
God  very  much,  which  made  it  strange  that  he  should 
say  this  thing. 

There  were  bits  of  broken  china  in  the  rubbish  — 
and  stumps  of  what  had  been  furniture  —  and  a 
string  of  green  beads.  I  picked  that  up  and  put  it  in 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  69 

my  pocket.  I  knew  it  well.  It  had  caught  the  rays 
of  the  rising  sun  from  the  pillow  next  to  mine,  many 
and  many  a  morning,  before  .  .  . 

O  God,  before  what? 

There  are  some  thoughts  that  stab  you  worse  than 
any  pain  of  the  body.  I  have  stood  Red  Indian  tor- 
tures, in  the  South  American  days,  without  opening 
my  lips.  But  that  string  of  shining  beads,  and  what  I 
found  under  another  heap  of  rubbish  —  a  briar-root 
pipe  with  silver  bands  on  it;  none  of  mine  —  smashed 
my  self -restraint  like  glass,  and  I  cried  out  with  rage 
and  pain.  He  had  done  this!  He  had  only  waited 
till  the  gossip  of  Samarai  assured  him  I  was  safely 
away  at  the  other  end  of  the  country,  to  sneak  up  here 
into  my  land,  my  home,  that  I  had  made  out  of  noth- 
ing, and  destroy  it  —  to  burn  my  little  nest,  and  carry 
away  the  sweet  brown  bird  that  had  sung  in  it  .  .  . 
to  take  my  wife.  .  «  . 

Kari  was  gone  —  carried  away  by  the  brute  whose 
face  I  had  loathed  from  the  moment  I  first  saw  it. 
She  would  never  again  run  to  meet  me  in  the  evening, 
down  the  paw-paw  walk  we  had  planted  together.  I 
should  never  hear  her  high  sweet  little  voice  calling 
out,  "  Me  here !  "  from  the  living-room  or  the  veranda, 
when  I  came  home  at  noon.  .  .  .  Home !  I  had 
no  home  now.  I  had  no  plantation.  I  had  no  future. 
Was  it  a  man  or  a  devil  who  had  .acted  thus  to  a 
harmless  fellow  who  wished  no  human  creature  ill  ? 

.  .  .  I  think  if  I  had  not  found  someone  or 
something  to  vent  my  feelings  on  at  that  moment,  I 
should  have  gone  mad.  As  it  was  .  .  . 


70  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  threw  the  pipe  on  a  coral  bowlder,  and  lifted  up 
another  —  the  twin  in  size  and  weight  of  the  great 
stone  that  was  lying  on  the  skeleton  of  the  snake  I  had 
killed,  months  before.  I  beat  the  great  lump  of  coral 
down  on  the  pipe,  and  smashed  it  to  powder,  and 
kicked  the  powder  to  all  the  winds  of  the  trades. 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  crazy  work,  my  eye  caught  a 
movement  in  the  bush. 

I  had  not  time  to  wonder,  until  now,  where  all  the 
boys  were.  But  the  shaking  of  the  trees,  and  the 
glimpse  of  a  black  head,  evidently  in  full  flight,  turned 
my  mind  from  the  ruins  of  the  cottage,  as  a  mad  dog 
is  turned  from  his  prey  by  the  sight  of  another  vic- 
tim. I  burst  into  the  fire-blackened  forest  —  it  was 
burned  only  at  the  outer  edge  —  and  in  a  moment  had 
Boromai,  one  of  my  head  boys,  struggling  and  shriek- 
ing in  my  hands.  It  took  many  minutes  to  quiet  him 
—  I  think,  perhaps,  because  I  could  not  command 
myself  enough  to  stop  shaking  him,  while  I  told  him 
to  hold  his  tongue.  At  last,  maddened  by  his  cease- 
less cries,  I  pulled  out  my  45  Colt,  and  held  it  to  his 
head. 

"  Stop,  and  tell  me  everything,  or  I'll  shoot  you  as 
dead  as  cannibal  meat !  "  I  said. 

Boromai  turned  gray,  and  held  his  peace.  I  let  him 
go  then,  and  set  him  up  against  a  tree  —  he  seemed 
unable  to  stand  —  and,  still  holding  the  pistol,  ordered 
him  to  speak.  He  shut  his  eyes  tight,  and  sniveling 
the  while,  rattled  out  a  brief  story  in  his  own  tongue. 
Brief  and  bald  though  it  was,  I  knew  it  to  be  true. 
I  had  handled  natives  long  enough  to  judge  when  they 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  71 

were  lying,  and  when,  by  some  unusual  chance,  they 
were  not.  Patently,  Boromai  had  been  frightened 
into  truth. 

This  was  what  he  said. 

The  Hanuabada  girl  belonging  to  Taubada  (the 
Chief)  had  cried  when  he  went  away,  but  in  a  day  or 
two  she  began  borrowing  new  grass  skirts  from  the 
other  women,  and  painting  her  face  continually,  and 
looking  out  from  the  jetty  every  hour.  And  the  talk 
of  the  plantation  was  that  she  expected  Master  to 
turn  and  come  back.  Some  days,  and  some  days,  and 
some  days,  passed,  and  Master  did  not  come  back,  but 
the  Hanuabada  girl  still  made  herself  fine  as  if  for 
a  yam  dance,  and  looked  very  often  out  to  sea.  And 
some  days  and  some  days  and  some  days  passed.  And 
the  "  sikoona  "  that  belonged  to  the  white  man  with 
the  head  like  a  lokohu  (red  bird  of  Paradise)  came 
to  the  island.  And  the  white  man  went  to  the  house. 
The  Hanuabada  girl  cried  when  she  saw  him,  being  a 
woman,  and  therefore  foolish,  but  some  days  and 
some  days  passed,  and  the  plantation  boys  saw  them 
walking  all  the  time  about  the  shore  together,  and  at 
evening  they  laughed  and  sang,  and  drank  the  wisiki 
from  the  stone  jar,  in  the  house,  and  so  it  was  for  days 
and  days  and  days  more.  And  Siri,  who  knew  the 
white  men's  ways,  and  Siri's  wife  Bogi,  went  to  the 
Hanuabada  girl  when  the  white  man  had  gone  to 
swim,  and  said  to  her  that  she  did  wickedly,  and  that 
Lineti  would  kill  her,  and  the  white  man  with  the 
head  of  a  lokohu,  and  Siri,  and  Bogi,  and  all  the  plan- 
tation boys,  when  he  came  back,  and  Siri  and  Bogi 


72  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

said  that  they  did  not  want  to  be  killed.  But  the 
Hanuabada  girl  had  gone  mad  with  pride  and  the  fool- 
ishness that  is  in  women,  and  said  that  her  white  man 
would  kill  Lineti,  and  she  would  watch  them  fight,  and 
at  the  end  when  Lineti  was  killed,  she  would  dance  the 
dance  of  the  women  who  meet  the  warriors  coming 
home,  and  they  would  put  Lineti's  skull  on  the  ridge- 
pole of  the  house.  And  Siri  and  Bogi  cried,  because 
they  saw  that  the  white  man  had  made  puri-puri 
(sorcery)  and  given  the  Hanuabada  girl  over  to  devils. 
Then  there  were  days  and  days  and  days,  until  it  was 
a  moon,  and  the  white  man  said  that  Lineti  would 
come  back  quickly.  So  Kari  and  the  white  man  put 
all  the  small  things  of  the  house  into  the  big  "  si- 
koona,"  and  the  "  sikoona  "  boat  was  waiting  at  the 
place  of  the  stones,  but  Kari  would  drink  more  wisiki 
before  she  went  to  the  boat,  and  the  white  man  drank 
too.  And  they  came  out  from  the  house,  standing  up 
and  running  and  falling  down,  and  the  white  man  was 
laughing  like  the  crow  that  eats  flesh,  and  Kari 
screamed  after  the  same  way  as  the  cockatoos.  And 
they  both  had  fire  in  their  hands.  There  had  been 
no  rain  since  Master  went  away,  nor  for  a  month  be- 
fore, and  the  plantation  was  dry  as  the  sand  when  it 
is  noon.  The  Hanuabada  girl  and  the  white  man, 
screaming  and  laughing,  went  to  the  young  cocoanuts 
with  fire  in  their  hands,  and  the  men  were  all  afraid, 
and  ran  away,  only  Siri  came  and  cried  out,  and  took 
the  fire,  and  fought  with  them.  He,  Boromai,  had 
run  up  one  of  the  palms,  the  big  old  palms,  and  could 
not  get  away  like  the  other  boys,  and  he  saw  how  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  73 

white  man  hit  Siri  with  a  knife  in  the  breast,  and  Siri 
lay  down,  and  the  blood  came  out,  and  the  Hanuabada 
girl,  when  she  saw  the  blood,  laughed  a  great  deal 
more,  and  began  to  dance  the  women's  dance,  but  the 
wisiki  had  made  her  feet  foolish,  and  she  fell.  Then 
the  white  man  took  her  up  and  carried  her  to  the  boat, 
and  the  "  sikoona  "  went  away,  and  he,  Boromai,  was 
very  near  being  burned  to  death,  for  the  flames  spread 
everywhere,  and  he  could  not  get  down  from  his  tree 
till  all  the  fire  was  finished,  and  the  house  and  the  lit- 
tle cocoanuts  burned  up.  And  because  he  knew  the 
pigs  would  come  out  of  the  bush  by  and  by,  he  had 
taken  Siri  down  to  the  shore,  and  covered  him  up 
with  sand.  All  that  night  the  men  and  their  wives 
had  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  the  next 
day  while  Boromai  was  sleeping,  they  had  got  up 
early,  early,  and  taken  the  canoes  away  to  Cape  En- 
diadere,  and  those  that  could  not  get  in  had  lain  down 
on  the  beach  and  screamed,  because  they  knew  that 
Lineti  would  kill  them  all  when  he  came  back.  All 
over  the  island  they  were  hiding,  and  there  was  very 
bad  fear  on  them. 

"  He  tell  true,  Taubada,"  said  the  voice  of  Garia 
close  beside  us.  "  I  been  look  along  bush,  I  see  flenty 
boy,  he  stop  lie  down.  Taubada,"  scanning  my  face 
with  savage  keenness,  "  I  think  more  better  you  telling 
Boromai  you  no  kill  all  that  boy,  by-an'-by  he  come 
out." 

Garia  had  read  my  mind  clearly  enough.  I  might 
have  knocked  about  the  boys  in  my  first  access  of 
rage  (killing  was,  of  course,  far  outside  my  thoughts) 


74  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

if  they  had  appeared  at  once.  I  was  quieting  down 
now,  and  beginning  to  think.  There  seemed  a  pros- 
pect of  action  ahead,  somewhere  —  and  down  that 
meager  channel  the  confined  and  chafing  waters  of  my 
mind  rushed,  as  a  river  rushes  when  the  lock-gate  is 
lifted. 

"  You  can  go  and  tell  the  boys  to  come  out !  "  I  said 
to  Boromai,  in  his  own  tongue.  "  Say  that  I  will 
take  them  all  to  Cape  Endiadere  in  the  cutter  to-mor- 
row. Tell  them  the  plantation  is  finished." 

No  second  bidding  was  needed;  the  boys,  swelling 
with  importance,  ran  to  collect  their  comrades,  and  I 
remained  on  the  beach.  The  sun  beat  mercilessly 
down  from  the  brassy  sky;  the  hot  wind,  roaming 
about  the  lonely  shore,  cried  in  the  dry  pandanus 
trees.  And  as  I  waited  there,  again  and  again,  with 
the  tyrannous  insistence  of  a  chance  phrase  seizing  on 
an  overstrained  mind,  did  Garia's  cry  on  the  jetty  echo 
in  my  ears  — "  Taubada,  no  more,  no  more !  " 


CHAPTER  V 

x  I  VEN  days  afterwards,  close  on  to  sundown,  I 
•*•  steered  the  Bird  of  Paradise  into  Rossel  La- 
goon. 

Rossel  Island  is  the  last,  loneliest  outlier  of  the  New 
Guinea  continent  —  the  very  end  of  the  scattered 
string  of  islands  and  islets,  far  removed  from  one  an- 
other, that  depends  from  the  long  "  tail "  of  Papua 
in  a  southeasterly  direction.  No  ships  call  there,  no 
white  men  —  with  the  rarest  of  exceptions  —  come  and 
go.  Its  very  shores  are  scarcely  charted  out;  its 
swampy,  mountainous,  densely  forested  interior,  only 
a  few  shipwrecked  sailors  have  ever  seen;  and  they, 
for  the  best  of  reasons,  have  never  come  back  to  tell 
what  they  saw. 

Much  as  I  had  traveled  about  the  coasts  of  Papua, 
my  business  or  pleasure  had  never  taken  me  so  far  out 
as  Rossel,  and  I  had  some  little  difficulty  in  making 
my  way  there,  among  the  innumerable  uncharted 
reefs  and  atolls,  and  the  treacherous  currents  of  the 
Louisiades,  the  Bonvouloirs,  the  Ralicks,  and  the  Cal- 
vados Chain.  Garia,  who  was  a  Motuan  from  the 
Central  Division  of  the  mainland,  could  not  help  me  at 
all,  and  I  found  myself  constrained,  half  way  through 
the  four  hundred  mile  run  from  Cape  Endiadere,  to 
put  in  at  the  island  of  Nivani,  where  they  were  talking 

75 


76  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

about  making  a  Government  station,  and  ask  a  few 
questions  about  the  course. 

It  did  not  strike  me  at  the  time  that  I  was  acting 
rather  foolishly  —  that  the  errand  on  which  the  Bird 
of  Paradise  was  flying  southward,  was  scarcely  one 
that  demanded  advertisement.  Governor  Hammond, 
I  afterwards  heard,  was  already  beginning  to  set  his 
mark  on  British  New  Guinea,  which  had,  up  to  this, 
been  notorious  as  the  most  utterly  lawless  colony  in 
the  Empire;  but  of  any  changes  that  had  taken,  or 
were  taking  place  at  the  executive  end  of  the  country 
I  knew  nothing,  and  in  the  state  of  mind  which  pos- 
sessed me  then,  should  probably  have  cared  less  if  I 
had  known. 

So,  as  I  have  said,  I  ran  into  Nivani,  found  a  brand- 
new  magistrate  making  arrangements  for  a  Govern- 
ment copra  plantation,  and  putting  up  a  tin-roofed 
bungalow  —  asked  him  if  he  knew  the  shortest  and 
best  course  to  Rossel  Island,  got  an  answer,  shouted 
out  to  me  from  the  beach,  as  I  sat  in  my  dingy  —  for 
I  did  not  land  —  and  sailed  away  again  through 
Horaki  Raki  and  Wuri-Wuri  passages,  southeastward 
for  Rossel  Island.  I  knew  whom  I  should  find  there, 
as  well  as  if  Sanderson  had  left  me  a  memoradum  of 
his  plans.  Rossel  was  one  of  the  islands  to  which  he 
traded  now  and  then,  bartering  tobacco  and  toma-' 
hawks,  for  red  shell  had  a  certain  value  in  New 
Guinea;  and  I  knew  that  the  limited  intelligence  of 
the  brute  would  carry  him  just  far  enough  in  the  path 
of  diplomacy  to  make  him  select  the  most  out-of-the- 
way  place  he  knew  anything  about  —  without  enabling 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  77 

him  to  see  that  that  was  exactly  what  any  other  person 
would  expect  him  to  do.  If  I  had  been  dealing  with 
a  man  of  superior  intellect,  I  would  have  looked  for 
him  somewhere  near  Port  Moresby  or  Samarai,  know- 
ing he  would  argue  to  himself  that  the  out-of-the-way 
corners  would  be  the  very  first  to  be  searched.  But 
since  it  was  Sanderson,  a  creature  to  my  mind  not 
much  higher  than  the  brutes  with  whom  I  had  to  do,  I 
steered  for  Rossel  as  straight  as  I  could  go  ... 
and  I  was  right. 

We  came  under  the  lee  of  the  island  just  after  the 
sun  had  set,  while  the  brief  equatorial  twilight  was 
still  lingering  in  the  sky.  There  is  something  wicked 
about  a  New  Guinea  sunset;  many  old  traders  and 
shell-hunters  will  know  what  I  mean,  although  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  describe  it.  The  lurid  purples 
and  bloody  reds  of  the  western  sky  —  the  monstrous 
piling  of  cloud  on  cloud,  fantastic  with  wild  simu- 
lacra of  routed  and  flying  armies,  of  dragons  and 
krakens  and  bat-winged  nightmare  beasts,  such  as  only 
the  trade-wind's  giant  hands  can  sculpture  —  the 
heavy  stillness  that  so  often  falls  on  land  and  sea  with 
the  death  of  the  sun,  like  the  silence  of  a  darkening 
room  where  one  lies  foully  slain  —  all  make  the  even- 
ing hour  of  this  strange  country  as  unlike  as  possible 
to  the  "  holy  eventide  "  that  most  of  us  remember  well 
—  too  well  —  in  the  far-off  northern  lands,  where 
May  swells  sweet  in  the  twilight,  and  church-bells  ring 
as  the  evening  star  shines  out,  and  "  peace  comes  down 
with  nightfall." 


78  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Do  those  who  live  in  the  placid  countries  —  in  the 
lands  where  all  things  always  are  the  same  —  realize 
much  of  their  own  law-abiding  nature  is  made  for 
them  by  the  surroundings  of  their  lives?  Do  they 
know  how  every  evil  passion  of  humanity  flourishes 
in  these  wild  countries?  How  the  fierce  climate  adds 
its  fierceness  to  jealousy  and  rage,  how  the  violence 
and  cruelty  of  the  savages  among  whom  one  lives,  and 
the  small  account  set  on  human  life  by  men  who  are 
forced  in  their  own  persons  to  disregard  danger  of 
any  kind,  envelop  one's  mind  like  a  poisonous  miasma, 
stifling  and  even  destroying  the  white  man's  hard-won 
heritage  of  pity? 

I  am  not  desirous  of  making  excuses  for  myself. 
What  I  have  done,  I  am  being  punished  for,  and  the 
punishment  is  no  doubt  deserved ;  but  as  for  repentance 
or  excuse,  I  will  have  none  of  either. 

Still  ...  I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether 
I  could  have  felt  as  calmly  confident  of  my  own  pur- 
pose, as  deadly  certain  that  I  should  carry  it  out,  in 
any  other  surroundings. 

There  is  death  in  the  very  air  of  Rossel  Island. 
There  is  death,  violent  and  cruel  death,  in  every  word 
of  its  history.  It  is  not  a  generation  since  the  people 
of  the  island  captured,  imprisoned  on  a  barren  rock, 
and  by  slow  degrees  killed  and  devoured,  a  shipload  of 
three  hundred  Chinese  coolies,  wrecked  on  their  way 
to  Australia.  Murder  is  the  profession  of  every  Ros- 
sel Islander,  torture  his  amusement.  A  man-hunt  is 
so  dear  a  delight  to  him  that  he  will  let  the  destined 
victim  of  the  cooking-pots  know  his  fate  days  before- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  79 

hand,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  raising  a  hue- 
and-cry,  and  hunting  the  wretch  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
before  the  smothering-gang  closes  round  to  choke  his 
life  out  with  their  practiced  hands.  Civilization,  ex- 
cept in  the  form  of  a  venturesome  trader  or  two,  has 
never  come  near  this  inferno  of  the  islands,  and  it  is 
safe  to  predict  that  when  the  opening  up  of  the  main- 
land comes  —  as  come  it  certainly  will  —  Rossel 
Island  will  be  the  last  place  to  feel  the  change. 

And  the  island  looks  what  it  is. 

We  came  slowly  up  into  the  great  semi-circular  bay, 
shut  in  by  sinister  black  hills,  just  as  the  sun  had  gone. 
The  after-glow  still  lingered;  there  was  light  enough 
—  an  evil,  copper-green  glare,  like  the  reflection  from 
some  witch's  cauldron  —  to  see  the  stark  outlines  of 
the  hills,  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  an  amphi- 
theater some  three  thousand  feet  high,  about  the  death- 
still,  dark  green  waters  of  the  bay.  The  dense  forest 
that  covered  the  hills  hung  on  them  like  a  black  cloak, 
down  to  the  very  lip  of  the  sea;  there  was  not  so  much 
as  a  yard  of  open  sand  where  a  man  might  find  foot- 
hold. If  there  were  eyes  behind  that  curtain,  watch- 
ing us  as  we  came  in,  there  was  nothing  to  tell  of  them. 
Only  the  white  cockatoos,  ghostly  in  the  green  twi- 
light, flitted  their  lost  spirits  up  and  down  the  face 
of  the  dark  cliffs,  tearing  the  silence  with  their  home- 
less wails. 

'  Taubada,  no  good  this  place,"  said  Garia  fear- 
fully, as  the  anchor  of  the  boat  plunged  down. 
"  Plenty  devil  he  stop.  I  too  much  fright." 

"Which   are  you  most  afraid   of  —  the   devil  or 


80  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

me  ?  "  I  asked,  sitting  down  on  the  cabin  skylight  to 
fill  my  pipe.  I  have  set  out  to  tell  the  truth  in  this 
story,  and  I  am  consequently  obliged  to  say  that  I  felt 
perfectly  cool  and  perfectly  satisfied  with  myself,  and 
as  sure  of  what  I  was  going  to  do  as  I  was  sure  of  fin- 
ishing my  smoke. 

Garia  looked  at  me  before  answering.  I  remember 
very  well  how  his  china-like,  brown-and-white  eyes 
shone  out  of  his  almost  invisible  face  in  the  dusk  — 
oddly  strained  they  looked,  and  all  the  pupil  showed. 

"  More  fright  along  you,"  he  answered ;  his  teeth 
seemed  to  be  chattering. 

"  Then  you'd  better  hold  your  tongue,"  I  said,  smok- 
ing, and  Garia  held  it. 

So  much  so,  that  when  a  streak  of  something  crim- 
son came  floating  past  the  cutter,  on  the  outward  run 
of  the  tide,  my  Papuan  reached  at  it  and  held  it  up  to 
me,  without  a  single  word.  It  was  a  native  waist- 
cloth  of  red  trade  calico  —  brand-new. 

Then  I  knew  that  I  was  right,  and  that  Sanderson 
was  here. 

With  the  first  glimmer  of  daylight,  I  started  about 
getting  the  cutter  under  way.  I  calculated  that  the  Oro- 
kolo  had  probably  made  the  land  at  about  the  same 
point  as  I  had,  but  that  her  master  had  run  westward 
down  the  coast  before  the  "  trades,"  looking  for  some 
more  secluded  harbor.  It  could  not  be  a  difficult  mat- 
ter to  find  the  schooner,  wherever  she  might  be  — 
the  island  was  not  anywhere  twenty  miles  in  length. 

So,   after  a  hurried  breakfast,   I  got  the  Bird  of 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  81 

Paradise  going  before  a  strong  squally  wind,  and 
sailed  out  of  the  bay  at  a  ten-knot  gait.  If  the  place 
had  looked  evil  the  night  before,  it  looked  deadly  to- 
day. The  tree-hung  cliffs  and  hills  were  all  blackish 
green,  like  moss  on  a  wet  stone;  dark  mangrove  beds 
ran  out  here  and  there  into  the  water  from  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  wall,  the  open  lanes  among  their  snaky, 
slimy  roots  gleaming  un wholesomely  under  the  fitful 
light  of  the  day.  And  it  rained  —  how  it  rained ! 
The  roar  of  the  cataract  that  fell  on  the  deck  of  the 
cutter  hour  after  hour,  as  if  Niagara  had  broken  loose 
in  the  sky,  almost  drowned  my  voice  when  I  shouted  to 
Garia;  the  land  was  constantly  blotted  out  by  flying 
processions  of  gigantic  mist-wreaths,  rearing  their 
spectral-hooded  heads  high  above  the  hills  and  sweep- 
ing their  shroud-like  robes  over  miles  of  angry  sea. 
Dark  water,  dark  shore,  and  baffling,  streaming  mists 
—  wild  gusts  of  wind  and  rain,  and  the  cutter  lying 
over  on  her  gunwale,  with  a  runnel  of  foam  flying  aft 
along  the  deck  —  so  passed  the  day.  It  was  well  on 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rain  was  coming  down  more 
violently  than  ever  —  though  one  would  scarcely  have 
thought  that  possible  —  when  Garia  leapt  to  his  feet 
with  a  yell  that  pierced  through  all  the  trampling  of 
the  rain,  and  roaring  of  the  wind  in  sheets  and  sails. 
"  Taubada !  Taubada !  Orokola  he  stop !  " 
I  had  been  busy  putting  about,  and  had  not  seen 
what  the  Papuan's  quick  eyes  noticed  so  soon  as  it 
came  in  sight  round  the  projecting  point  we  were  at- 
tempting to  weather.  .  .  .  We  had  caught  the 
schooner ! 


82  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

There  she  lay  in  the  shelter  of  a  narrow  islet,  safe 
from  every  wind  that  blew,  and  moored  to  the  cliff 
itself.  Her  dingy  trailed  at  her  stern  —  empty.  Her 
sails  were  neatly  stowed;  there  was  no  smoke  from 
the  galley  fire;  there  were  no  figures  stirring  on  the 
deck. 

"  Taubada,  I  think  all  that  people  he  been  clear  out," 
observed  Garia  anxiously. 

How  much  the  man  knew  or  guessed  of  my  inten- 
tion in  following  up  Sanderson  and  the  schooner,  I 
have  never  troubled  to  think.  It  struck  me  once  or 
twice  —  just  then,  for  example  —  that  he  was  not  alto- 
gether ignorant.  But  I  had  other  things  to  think 
about. 

"  I  dare  say,"  was  my  answer.     "  Down  sail !  " 

We  anchored  the  cutter  under  the  lee  of  the  land, 
some  distance  from  the  schooner,  and  got  out  the 
dingy.  The  wind  had  gone  down  since  we  ran  into 
shelter ;  the  bay  was  empty  and  still,  and  there  was  not 
a  sound  to  be  heard,  but  the  grinding  of  our  rowlocks, 
and  the  far-away,  faint  trickling  of  some  unseen 
waterfall. 

"  Bolted,"  I  said  to  myself,  without  any  special  con- 
cern. I  knew  it  could  make  no  difference  —  in  the 
end. 

We  went  on  board  the  schooner,  and  found  her  ab- 
solutely deserted,  not  even  a  native  left  in  charge. 
There  were  signs  of  recent  life  on  the  shore  —  ashes 
of  a  fire  which  had  been  built  up  inside  a  stone  hearth, 
white-man  fashion ;  a  pile  of  empty  meat  tins,  a  mouth- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  83 

organ,  a  broken  whisky-bottle.  I  went  over  and  ex- 
amined the  ashes.  They  were  cold,  even  underneath 
the  stones. 

"  Taubada,"  said  Garia,  his  brown  body  trembling 
as  he  spoke,  with  mingled  excitement,  cold  and  fear. 
"  I  think  boy  belong  Rossel  Island,  he  see  cutter  come 
las'  night,  he  run  flenty,  flenty  fast,  tell  Sanasoni,  boy 
belong  Sikoona,  girl  belong  Taubada.  I  think  all  that 
people  be  fright,  he  run  long  bush." 

"  Yes,  that's  about  the  size  of  it,  Garia,"  I  said. 
"  Go  back  to  the  cutter  and  get  me  a  lantern,  the  bag 
of  trade  in  my  cabin,  and  something  to  eat." 

Loaded  up  with  these  things,  and  armed  with  a  re- 
volver and  a  sailor's  knife,  in  case  of  trouble  with  the 
natives,  I  landed  on  the  rocks  at  the  water's  edge  — 
for  here  again  there  was  no  beach  —  and  set  off  along 
the  narrow  scratch  of  track  that  I  could  see  leading 
away  into  the  forest  above.  I  was  quite  clear  as  to 
my  plans,  and  not  in  the  least  excited.  Garia,  curi- 
ously enough,  was  so  strangely  uplifted  by  something 
or  other  —  one  can  never  get  at  the  depths  of  a  na- 
tive's mind,  and  I  for  one  don't  ,think  it  worth  trying 
• —  that  he  sang  wildly  and  fiercely  all  the  way  out  to 
the  cutter  again,  even  stopping  now  and  then  to  wave 
the  paddles  round  his  head,  and  let  out  a  terrifying 
yell.  I  thought  I  recognized  that  last  expansion  of 
feeling;  it  was  known  among  the  mountain  tribes  as 
the  death-cry.  Its  history  is  too  long  to  write  down, 
and  in  any  case  it  is  the  reverse  of  pretty. 

It  was  curious  how  that  cry  followed  me;  I  could 


84  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

hear  it  for  quite  a  long  time  after  I  had  left  the  sea 
behind,  and  began  climbing  up  through  the  soaking, 
soppy  forest. 

I  looked  for,  and  found,  tracks  in  the  pasty 
mud  of  the  path  —  prints  of  native  feet  everywhere, 
and  plain  among  them  one  track  that  was  not  native  — 
the  print  of  a  white  man's  foot,  bare. 

That  was  like  Sanderson  —  to  take  off  his  boots  in 
order  to  lose  his  tracks  among  those  of  the  natives,  and 
forget  that  a  foot  that  has  gone  shod  leaves  a  print 
a  child  could  scarcely  mistake.  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
picking  out  and  following  his  track  for  a  mile  or  more. 
Then  I  lost  it;  the  path  turned  into  a  river  bed,  after 
the  manner  of  native  roads  in  New  Guinea,  and  thence- 
forward became  one  with  the  stream. 

I  stopped  to  look  round.  It  was  growing  dusk  here 
in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  though  outside  the  rainy 
light  still  lingered.  Drip,  drip,  went  the  wet  from  the 
trees  on  the  spongy  soil;  a  green  and  red  parrot 
screamed  spitefully  at  me,  and  dived  in  among  the 
boughs.  The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  rotting 
leaves  and  soaking  earth.  It  looked  like  an  excellent 
place  to  die  and  be  buried  in,  this  dark  island;  one 
could  hardly  imagine  that  anyone,  even  the  aboriginals, 
enjoyed  living  in  it. 

Still,  there  must  be  natives,  and  there  must  be  a  vil- 
lage, somewhere  near  this  track.  The  next  thing  was 
to  find  them. 

I  did  find  them.  After  a  little  trying  about,  I  saw 
a  clearing  ahead,  and  in  another  minute  was  standing 
in  the  open  square  of  a  small  village,  very  neatly  built 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALU  85 

of  stick  and  thatch,  all  the  houses  set  up  on  high  sup- 
ports, with  attractive  little  porch-verandas  about  the 
doors. 

I  looked  about  curiously;  I  knew  nothing  of  these 
people  except  by  hearsay,  and  certainly  had  not  been 
prepared  for  anything  so  well  built  as  these  houses. 
There  were  carvings  lying  about  the  doors,  and  elab- 
orately ornamented  bags,  and  a  good  many  red  and 
yellow  flowers  were  to  be  seen  in  the  village  square, 
evidently  planted  there.  A  cat,  fat  and  sleek,  and  ap- 
parently well  treated,  ran  into  the  bush  as  I  approached. 
It  seemed  hard  to  believe  that  this  place  could  be  the 
home  of  the  desperate  cannibals  and  man-hunters  I  had 
heard  of.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen,  but  I  knew 
very  well  the  inhabitants  were  probably  hiding  within 
a  few  yards  of  me  in  the  bush,  looking  at  me  from 
their  unseen  retreat,  and  wondering  whether  it  were 
worth  while  to  strangle  and  eat  me  or  no. 

I  sat  down  on  the  veranda  of  the  biggest  house,  and 
waited  the  return  of  the  men  with  what  patience  I 
could.  I  knew  very  well  that  I  could  do  nothing  in 
this  unknown  island  without  the  help  of  the  natives,  and 
it  was  important  to  gain  their  good  will  at  once.  I  took 
out  my  pipe,  cut  up  some  trade  tobacco,  and  began  to 
smoke;  knowing  the  smell  would  draw  them  in,  if  they 
were  anywhere  near.  New  Guinea  has  many  tribes  — • 
many  nations,  indeed,  one  might  say  —  but  of  them 
all,  there  is  not  one  that  does  not  love  tobacco,  strong 
trade  tobacco  in  dark,  treacly  sticks,  better  than  its 
own  soul  —  if  a  Papuan  has  a  soul. 

Whether  it  was  the  tobacco,  or  curiosity  to  see  the 


86  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL' 

unknown  white  man,  or  both  together,  I  cannot  say. 
But  the  bait  took.  By-and-by,  when  I  turned  my  head 
a  little  to  the  right,  I  saw,  standing  half  behind  me,  a 
group  of  about  a  dozen  men.  I  had  not  heard  them 
move,  I  had  not  seen  them  come.  But  there  they 
were.  I  looked  at  them,  and  they  looked  at  me,  and 
both  of  us  were  silent. 

I  don't  know  what  they  may  have  thought  of  me, 
but  I  certainly  thought  them  the  worst-looking  crew  I 
had  seen,  even  in  New  Guinea.  They  were  rather 
small,  very  dark,  and  extremely  ugly.  Their  heads 
were  smaller,  their  noses  flatter,  than  those  of  the 
mainland  people,  and  I  never  saw  such  mouths  before 
or  since,  save  on  a  toad.  They  were  almost  naked, 
being  clothed  only  in  a  curious  national  costume  of 
eight  or  ten  loops  of  rope,  festooned  about  their  hips. 
Most  of  them  had  pencils  of  white  shell  like  tusks 
thrust  through  their  noses.  They  had  no  spears  or 
arrows,  and  this  convinced  me  that  the  smothering 
stories  were  true,  for  the  uncivilized  tribes,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  go  armed  almost  night  and  day. 

It  was  necessary  to  get  into  touch  with  these  people 
somehow  or  other,  if  I  did  not  want  to  form  the  (lit- 
eral) piece  de  resistance  for  a  strangling  party.  I  took 
a  couple  of  sticks  of  tobacco,  broke  them  up,  and  dis- 
tributed them.  They  were  readily  taken;  Sanderson 
had  familiarized  the  people  with  trade  tobacco,  in  his 
various  comings  and  goings,  and  the  islanders  were 
evidently  fond  of  it.  Taking  care  not  to  show  all  the 
riches  in  my  bag,  I  pulled  out  a  handful  of  beads,  and 
offered  them  to  a  man  who  seemed  to  be  something  of 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  87 

a  chief,  to  judge  by  his  elaborate  feathered  ornaments, 
and  the  deference  paid  him  by  the  other  men.  He 
snatched  at  the  gift,  examined  it,  and  bestowed  it  in 
the  bag  he  carried  over  his  shoulder  —  an  odd  little 
storehouse  of  betel  nut,  shell  money,  and  other  native 
valuables,  worn  by  every  man.  A  piece  of  fine  toilet 
sponge  off  the  reef  was  contained  in  each  bag,  as  I 
noted  with  amazement  —  it  seemed  that  these  canni- 
bals who  did  dainty  chip-carving,  and  cultivated 
flower-gardens,  also  carried  the  refinements  of  life  so 
far  as  to  wash  their  tough  black  hides  with  delicate 
sponges,  like  any  white  lady.  They  began  to  talk 
now,  in  a  hideous  tongue  like  the  snappings  and  snarl- 
ings  of  dogs,  quite  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  heard 
before.  I  could  not  ev  >  make  a  guess  at  what  they 
were  saying,  but  I  conti  » ed  to  let  them  know  by  signs 
that  I  was  in  search  of  the  other  white  man,  who  had 
taken  away  my  wife,  and  that  I  would  give  them  much 
tobacco  if  they  would  help  me  to  find  him. 

They  were  a  little  slow  in  taking  up  the  meaning  of 
my  sign  talk ;  I  dare  say  they  might  not  have  grasped 
it  at  all,  had  they  not  guessed  something  of  my  errand 
from  what  they  had  seen  themselves.  The  idea  did 
penetrate  at  last,  and  then  — 

I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  its  effect.  The  islanders 
raised  a  yell  that  must  have  been  audible  down  on  the 
shore,  and  followed  it  up  with  a  series  of  frenzied 
yelps  —  I  can  really  call  them  nothing  else  —  expres- 
sive of  the  wildest  delight  and  eagerness.  One  after 
another,  attracted  by  the  noise,  more  men  came  run- 
ning in  from  the  bush  (still  in  the  same  mysterious, 


88  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

sudden  fashion)  until  we  had  thirty  or  forty,  all  plun- 
ging and  howling  with  excitement  in  the  little  square. 
There  was  no  fear  now  that  they  would  turn  on  me. 
I  was  going  to  give  them  what  they  liked  better  than 
anything  in  the  world  —  a  man-hunt. 

Nothing  would  do  them  but  we  must  start  at  once, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  night  was  darkening  down. 
With  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  making  most  of  the  crew 
turn  back,  save  some  five  or  six,  who  insisted  on  com- 
ing, and  these  I  had  to  allow,  though  indeed  one  would 
have  suited  my  humor  better.  A  guide  was  what  I 
wanted,  not  a  pack  of  hounds.  It  seemed,  however, 
that  I  was  to  have  the  latter  or  nothing. 

I  have  no  very  clear  recollection  of  the  night  and 
the  day  that  followed.  I  know  that  I  and  the  villagers, 
and  half  a  score  of  other  natives  who  turned  up  on  the 
way,  and  insisted  on  joining  the  party,  spent  the  hours 
from  dusk  to  dawn,  and  from  dawn  to  noon  again, 
climbing,  sliding,  crawling,  running,  along  endless 
miles  and  miles  of  forest  track,  almost  every  yard  of 
which  seemed  to  be  perpendicular  —  sometimes  up 
and  sometimes  down,  but  never  level.  I  know  that  it 
rained  sometimes  so  heavily  that  in  full  morning  the 
light  grew  gray  and  dim,  and  we  seemed  to  be  run- 
ning along  in  a  water  gloom  somewhere  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea,  with  long,  wet,  weedy  trails  of  greenery 
swinging  low  down  from  the  dark  canopy  above,  and 
giant  taro  leaves  as  big  as  tables,  beaded  all  over  with 
clammy  dew,  striking  at  us  with  their  damp  hands  as 
we  swept  past.  I  remember  that  the  island  men  ran 
low  and  softly,  and  carried  no  light  even  in  the  dark ; 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  89 

and  that  often  they  turned  to  me,  when  the  day  was 
coming,  and  mopped  and  mowed  hideously  to  express 
their  anger  at  my  noisy  movements,  for  now  they  were 
mad  with  the  lust  of  the  chase,  and  almost  ready  to 
kill  the  hunter,  if  he  interfered  with  the  pleasure  of 
the  hounds.  But  at  times,  when  we  stopped  to  breathe, 
they  would  gather  round  me,  and  feel  my  limbs  ad- 
miringly, and  measure  the  depth  of  my  chest  with 
their  hands  placed  back  and  front,  and  show  by  their 
gestures  that  they  thought  I  traveled  well.  We  ate 
once  or  twice  —  I  from  the  bag  I  carried,  and  they 
from  strange  bundles  of  banana  leaf  bound  up  with 
sinnet  —  and  we  drank  many  times  from  the  streams, 
which  were  wonderfully  clear  and  cold  in  all  that 
clammy  heat.  We  swam  and  waded  across  rivers, 
many  and  many  of  them,  or  it  may  have  been  that  we 
crossed  and  recrossed  one  or  two,  following  up  their 
course  —  I  cannot  tell.  The  islanders  watched  for 
signs  as  they  ran,  and  saw  them  so  easily,  so  constantly, 
and  (as  I  afterwards  knew)  so  certainly,  in  places 
where  I  could  find  no  trace  myself,  that  I  wondered 
at  the  keenness  of  their  senses.  Now  and  then  there 
were  things  that  I  could  understand  —  a  rag  of  flan- 
nel, a  dropped  button,  a  footprint.  .  .  .  And,  as 
the  black  hounds  showed  by  word  and  look,  and  even 
by  low  beast-like  whines  of  delight,  as  the  day  drew 
on,  the  signs  began  to  grow  fresher  with  our  progress 
towards  the  center  of  the  island.  It  was  clear  that 
we  were  catching  up  on  our  quarry. 

It  must  have  been  about  noon  when  the  islanders 
began  to  slacken  their  speed,  and  creep  stealthily  along 


90  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL' 

the  track  that  we  were  following  —  a  downward- 
sloping  scratch  in  the  slippery  black  earth,  much  en- 
cumbered with  fallen  logs  and  drooping  boughs.  The 
rain  was  over  now,  the  soil  was  steaming  with  heat 
and  damp,  and  the  sun  had  begun  to  force  its  way. 
here  and  there  through  the  thick  forest  roof  in  amaz- 
ing lights  of  lurid  green,  like  the  colored  flares  in 
a  firework  show.  The  wonderful  pale  orchid  that 
grows  in  Rossel,  and  nowhere  else,  seemed  to  have 
made  one  of  its  homes  in  this  valley;  a  huge  cluster 
of  its  ice- white,  starry  blooms  sprang  from  the  black 
bole  of  a  fallen  cottonwood  tree,  shining  out  in  that 
gloomy  place  like  one  pure  thought  in  an  evil 
heart.  .  .  . 

Did  such  a  simile  arise  in  my  mind  at  such  a  mo- 
ment? I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  it  did,  incon- 
gruous as  the  fact  may  seem.  If  there  is  any  man 
on  earth  made  all  of  one  piece  —  all  consistent,  in 
nothing  self-contradictory  —  I  have  not  met  him,  and 
I  do  not  profess  to  be  related  to  him.  .  .  „ 

As  I  said,  the  men  were  creeping  softly  and  stealth- 
ily now,  looking  ahead  through  the  boughs  from  time 
to  time.  Presently  the  chief  beckoned  to  me,  and 
pointed  to  something  a  long  way  below. 

We  were  standing  half  way  down  the  valley,  the 
ground  falling  sharply  away  below  us.  At  the  bottom 
there  was  a  wide  stony  river  bed,  only  half  filled  by 
a  shallow  hurrying  stream.  Under  the  lee  of  the  op- 
posite bank  was  a  rough  temporary  shelter  of  sticks 
and  leafy  boughs,  with  a  small  fire  burning  outside. 
There  was  an  old  meat  tin  on  the  fire,  and  a  man  was 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  91 

bending  over  it,  watching  it  .  .,  .  a  tall  man  in 
a  filthy,  ragged  suit  of  ducks;  a  man  with  curly  yellow 
hair.  .  .  .  Sanderson! 

Eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  and  limbs  trembling 
with  excitement,  the  islander  drew  me  back  into  the 
shelter  of  the  trees,  and  began  pantomiming  again, 
while  his  twenty  or  thirty  followers  sat  down  on  their 
haunches,  lolled  their  mouths  open,  and  looked  more 
like  dogs  than  ever  —  all  but  six,  who  detached  them- 
selves from  the  rest,  and  took  their  stand  where  they 
could  peep  over  into  the  valley  below. 

The  chief  pointed  to  these  six,  and  made  vivid, 
violent  gestures  describing  their  office.  They  were  to 
surround  Sanderson  (helped  by  the  rest  of  the  pack), 
and  then,  in  an  instant,  to  fasten  upon  him,  and  bear 
him  down,  one  at  each  arm,  one  at  each  leg,  one  to 
kneel  upon  his  chest,  and  one  to  hold  his  mouth  and 
nose.  This  the  chief  described  with  incredibly  fierce, 
yet  incredibly  silent  pantomime,  quite  exhausting  him- 
self with  the  vigor  of  his  efforts,  yet  making  so  little 
noise  that  he  might  well  have  been  a  dark  phantom 
grinning  and  leaping  unsubstantially  through  the 
dreams  of  some  fevered  brain,  only  the  rustling,  swing- 
ing branches  far  overhead,  and  the  hurrying  river  be- 
low, being  real. 

I  had  expected  some  such  difficulty  as  this,  and 
was  not  unprepared.  I  had  no  intention  in  the  world 
of  letting  loose  this  pack  of  black  hounds  on  a  man 
who  was  at  least  outwardly  white  like  myself,  nor 
did  I  intend  any  hand  but  my  own  do  the  work 
that  I  had  come  to  do.  There  was  no  use  attempting 


92  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

to  argue  with  the  islanders,  even  if  I  had  known  their 
language.  I  did  not  try.  I  sprang  up  on  the  bank, 
where  I  could  be  seen  clearly  from  below,  and  shouted 
out  at  the  top  of  my  voice  — "  Sanderson !  " 

I  used  to  be  known  on  the  brig,  in  my  old  sailor 
days,  as  the  only  man  whose  voice  could  be  heard 
from  bowsprit  to  rudder  chains  through  the  howling 
of  a  Western  Ocean  cyclone.  That  shout  waked  up 
the  valley.  The  natives  sprang  to  their  feet  and 
snarled  with  rage;  there  were  more  nasty  looks  fo- 
cused on  me  than  I  cared  about,  until  I  drew  my  re- 
volver, and  pointed  it  at  the  bunch  of  them.  Before 
they  had  time  to  decide  what  they  were  going  to  do, 
I  had  taken  a  dozen  long  jumps  down  the  side  of  the 
gorge,  and  was  within  a  yard  of  the  man  I  had  hunted 
from  end  to  end  of  the  country. 

He  had  dropped  the  tin  he  was  holding  over  the 
fire  when  he  heard  my  cry,  and  the  tea  it  held  was 
trickling  over  the  stones  in  a  dark-brown  stream,  but 
he  had  not  run  away,  though  I  daresay  he  would  have 
had  time  to  plunge  into  the  bush  while  I  was  getting 
down  the  cliff-side.  I  was  surprised,  almost  disap- 
pointed, that  he  had  the  courage  to  face  me;  I  had 
thought  him  of  the  rat  breed  through  and  through. 

Perhaps  I  had  forgotten  that  the  cornered  rat  is 
brave.  It  was  not  by  chance  that  Sanderson  had  come 
down  to  lonely  Rossel,  not  for  convenience  that  he 
had  pitched  his  camp  in  the  heart  of  an  unknown  and 
dangerous  island.  He  was  certainly  hiding  from  me, 
in  fear  of  rne.  Yet  when  hunted  down  he  showed  his 
teeth. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  93 

"  What  do  you  want  in  my  camp?  "  he  asked,  with 
an  oath  between  every  word,  and  a  foul  name  at  the 
end.  His  hand  went  to  the  leather  holster  on  his 
belt. 

"  You  know  what  I  want,"  I  said.  "  Put  that  pistol 
on  the  ground." 

As  I  had  covered  him  with  mine,  he  was  obliged  to 
obey.  The  metal  rang  hard  on  the  stone. 

Then  I  threw  my  own  on  the  ground  beside  it, 
pulled  the  knife  out  of  my  belt,  and  dropped  it  too. 

For  just  one  minute  we  stood  looking  at  each  other, 
and,  I  think,  measuring  one  another,  mind  and  body 
' —  we  two  who  had  met  but  once  before,  on  the  little 
island  of  sun  and  flowers,  and  who  were  now  met  for 
the  second  and  last  time  in  this  gloomy  gorge  of  Death, 
from  which  we  both  well  knew  that  only  one  would  re- 
turn. 

Such  was  the  evil  ascendency  of  the  man,  and  his 
power  of  conveying  his  thoughts  without  words,  that 
even  in  that  moment  he  succeeded  in  making  me  feel 
I  had  made  myself  absurd  by  chasing  after  him,  mean 
and  cowardly  by  using  the  natives  to  track  him  to  his 
lair.  He  grinned  at  me  like  a  dog  before  it  bites, 
and  I  knew  as  well  as  if  he  had  spoken  that  he  was 
saying  in  his  mind  — "  The  man  who  could  not  keep 
his  wife  —  The  man  who  boasts  and  bullies.  .  .  . 
The  ugly,  undersized  brute  who  thinks  himself  a  hand- 
some fellow.  .  .  ." 

I  don't  suppose  he  had  ever  heard  of  hypnotism  by 
name,  but  if  he  did  not  know  and  use  its  power,  then 
no  one  in  the  world  ever  did.  Evil  himself,  he  had 


94  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

power,  like  the  devils  of  the  Bible,  upon  other  devils, 
and  when  he  called  on  them,  they  came.  The  Papuan 
savagery  latent  in  my  gentle  little  wife  —  the  mean- 
nesses and  weaknesses  of  my  own  character  —  the 
wickedness,  if  one  but  knew  it,  of  a  thousand  other 
souls,  in  other  years  and  countries  —  all  answered  to 
his  call,  sure  as  the  rivers  run  to  meet  the  calling  of 
the  sea.  I  am  near  ashamed  to  write  the  words,  but 
it  is  true  that  for  a  moment  I  felt  inclined  to  beckon 
down  my  black  hounds  from  the  cliff  above,  and  let 
them  do  their  worst  on  the  brute  that  was  so  much 
lower  than  they.  A  vile  thought,  and  one  that,  in 
a  less  poisonous  presence,  would  not  have  been  mine. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  the  impulse  passed  away 
as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  I  turned  half  round  and 
signaled  to  the  islanders  where  they  hung  on  the 
verge  of  the  descent,  eager  to  fling  themselves  down, 
yet  somewhat  fearful  of  my  pistol,  which  they  seemed 
to  understand.  I  waved  them  back,  and  pointed  to 
the  weapon.  They  understood  that  too,  and,  chatter- 
ing and  snarling  with  rage,  stayed  where  they  were. 

Now  all  this  time  —  only  a  few  seconds,  in  reality, 
but  it  seemed  long  —  Sanderson  had  been  standing 
just  as  I  found  him,  his  gold  hair  shining  in  the  single 
ray  of  sun  that  crept  down  into  the  dusk  of  the  gorge, 
his  stained,  ragged  clothing,  and  haggard  face,  giving 
the  lie  clear  enough  to  his  deliberately  insolent  ex- 
pression. I  think,  if  he  had  appealed  to  my  pity  — 
but  how  do  I  know?  I  am  telling  the  tale,  not  of 
what  might  have  been,  but  what  was. 

"You  know  what  I  want,"  I  said  again;  it  seemed 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  95 

that  he  would  not  speak.  He  kept  eyeing  me  up  and 
down,  his  hands  twitching  at  his  sides,  his  face  a 
hard  mask  of  hate  .  .  .  yet  with  something  wild 
and  frightened  beginning  to  struggle  behind  the  mask, 
as  a  wild  beast  struggles  in  a  cage.  I  think  he 
must  have  seen  the  truth  in  my  face,  for  I  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  as  if  there  were  no  weight  in  my 
body,  and  there  was  fire  all  down  my  spine,  and  there 
was  a  red  mist  creeping  over  everything  before  my 
eyes,  the  same  mist  that,  once  or  twice  or  thrice  in 
my  lifetime,  has  set  a  mark  forever  upon  certain  hours. 

.  .  .  Then,  so  suddenly  that  I  had  no  time  to 
guard,  he  struck  at  me  with  a  knife  (I  had  not  known 
he  had  it)  and  spat  almost  in  my  eyes. 

The  knife  missed  as  I  sprang  aside,  just  grazing 
the  top  of  my  shoulder.  Even  while  I  sprang,  quick 
as  a  lightning  picture  seen  for  an  instant  in  a  storm, 
I  saw  the  black  hounds  down  in  the  valley,  sitting  on 
their  haunches  in  a  wide  circle  up  and  down  the  slopes 
of  the  cliff,  and  wagging  their  tongues  with  joy.  It 
passed  like  the  flash  in  the  thunder-cloud,  and  all  my 
jealousy,  and  agony,  and  rage,  and  all  my  very  life, 
went  out  like  the  lightning  itself  in  one  straight  blow 
that  struck  him  on  the  temple,  and  sent  the  black  soul 
that  sheltered  there,  back  to  the  dust  from  which  it 
came. 

He  fell  as  a  dead  man  falls,  and  lay  on  the  stones, 
staring  up  at  the  sky. 

The  islanders  were  round  him  like  a  pack  of  car- 
rion crows,  before  he  had  well  touched  the  earth. 
They  squatted  about  him,  and  felt  his  wrist  and  his 


96  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

heart,  and  touched  his  eyes  with  their  black  fingers. 
Then  they  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  raised  a  yell  of 
laughter,  and  I  knew  them  to  say  that  he  was  dead, 
and  that  the  sport  had  been  good. 

That  is  all  I  have  to  say  about  the  death  of  San- 
derson. I  made  the  natives  carry  his  body  up  on  to 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  bury  it  deep  in  the  firm  soil 
of  an  open  spot  under  some  casuarina  trees,  knowing 
that  they  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  disinter  it, 
if  the  job  were  well  done.  They  growled  a  little 
over  this,  but  I  pacified  them  with  the  gift  of  a  pound 
of  tobacco  from  my  bag,  and  promised  them  more 
when  I  should  get  back  to  my  ship  —  expressing  my 
meaning  by  signs  that  they  seemed  to  understand.  I 
knew  well  that  they  were  bitterly  disappointed  at  having 
had  their  quarry  snatched  from  them  twice  —  first 
living,  and  then  dead  —  and,  without  being  more 
afraid  of  the  brutes  than  I  have  ever  been  of  natives, 
I  quite  understood  that  my  getting  back  alive  to  the 
coast  was  very  much  a  matter  of  luck.  The  promised 
reward  for  safe-conduct  had  its  effect,  however,  and 
they  guided  me  by  a  short  cut  back  to  the  bay  where 
the  cutter  was  moored,  in  a  very  few  hours.  I  paid 
them  there,  as  I  had  promised,  and  they  disappeared 
into  the  forest,  howling  and  whining  with  joy. 

I  have  been  particular  in  mentioning  these  matters, 
because  of  the  misrepresentations  from  which  I  suf- 
fered later  on. 

All  this  time  I  had  heard  nothing  about  Kari,  and 
indeed  I  had  not  greatly  troubled  myself  about  her, 
thinking  her  not  worth  it.  But  now  that  I  was  down 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  97 

on  the  coast  again,  and  ready;  to  make  sail,  I  thought 
of  asking  Garia  had  he  seen  or  heard  anything. 

It  was  almost  dark,  but  I  did  not  care  to  hang 
about  the  neighborhood  of  the  island  in  such  a  small 
boat  any  longer  than  could  be  helped,  and  we  were 
just  about  making  sail,  in  the  ugly  light  of  the  after- 
glow, when  I  called  out  to  my  man  through  the  flap- 
ping of  the  canvas  — 

"Did  you  see  the  woman?"  Somehow,  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  speak  her  name. 

Garia,  who  had  been  staring  at  me  in  silence  since 
I  came  on  board,  stopped  hauling,  and  leaned  his 
dark  face  over  the  sail,  close  to  mine. 

"  Taubada !     You  no  savvy  ?  "  he  cried. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

The  Papuan  pointed  to  the  waters  of  the  bay,  sweep- 
ing his  arm  round  with  one  of  those  expressive  ges- 
tures of  which  uncivilized  man  alone  has  the  secret. 

"  Orokolo  he  finished,"  he  said. 

And  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  that  the  Orokolo 
was  no  longer  there.  Where  had  the  schooner  dis- 
appeared to?  She  had  only  a  native  crew;  could 
they  have  stolen  her,  in  the  absence  of  their  master? 

'  Taubada,"  said  Garia,  very  talkative  now,  but 
still  casting  odd  sidelong  glances  at  me.  "  I  stop 
here,  I  look  along  bush.  By-'n'-by  some  boy  belong 
Sanasoni  he  come  run  quick,  quick,  girl  belong  Tau- 
bada she  come.  All  that  boy  he  go  'long  sikoona, 
flenty  he  cly,  flenty  flighten.  Girl  belong  Taubada 
she  go  sikoona,  she  cly  all  same  tockatoo,  she  sing 
out  along  me  *  Taubada  he  go  kill  Sanasoni,  kill  Kari, 


98  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

kill  all  the  boy.'  My  word,  he  flenty  flighten,  that 
fellow!  I  laugh  along  him,  I  telling  him  Taubada 
he  kill  all  that  boy,  that  girl,  by-'n'-by  he  eating  him. 
All  the  boy  he  up-sail,  he  go  out,  Kari  she  go  along. 
By-'n'-by  too  much  wind  he  stop  outside,  one  boy  he 
taking  wheel,  he  no  savvy  flenty,  big,  big  squall  he  come. 
That  boy  he  let  go  wheel,  he  sing  out,  he  cly,  all  the 
boy  he  cly,  Kari  she  cly,  big,  big,  big  wind  he  take 
sikoona,  throw  him  down,  by-'n'-by  sikoona  he  no  stop 
no  more,  boy  he  no  stop,  Kari  no  stop.  Finish !  " 

"  Good  God ! "  I  said.  "  Do  you  mean  they  let 
her  get  aback  in  one  of  those  squalls,  and  sank  her?  " 

"  Yes,  he  get  aback.  He  all  —  fool,  I  think.  Very 
quick  he  all  been  go  'long  hell,  all  the  boy,  Kari,  she 
go,"  said  Garia  with  considerable  satisfaction.  "  Me 
miss'n  boy.  Me  go  'long  heaven,  by-'n'-by  some  day." 

"  You  little  beast,  couldn't  you  have  put  out  and 
picked  some  of  them  up  ?  Were  they  all  drowned  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Yes,  all  finish  that  fellow,"  said  my  follower 
cheerfully.  "  Too  much  wind  he  stop,  I  no  want  I 
finish." 

I  could  find  nothing  to  say  in  answer  to  such  a 
complete  philosophy  of  life;  in  truth,  I  was  little  in- 
clined to  speak.  The  news  had  come  with  a  greater 
shock  to  me  than  I  could  have  believed.  To  know 
that  Kari  was  gone  —  that  the  knot  of  my  ill-starred 
marriage  had  been  cut  asunder  by  the  sword  that 
shears  through  all  the  tangles  of  all  our  lives  at 
last  —  waked  such  a  conflicting  variety  of  feelings  in 
my  mind,  that  I  could  talk  no  more.  We  were  run- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  99 

ning  out  of  the  bay  in  the  growing  dark  before  a 
light  favoring  breeze.  I  gave  the  tiller  into  Garia's 
hand,  and  went  and  sat  down  upon  the  skylight,  look- 
ing forward  to  the  yellow  sunset,  and  the  weltering 
black  sea,  and  the  night  that  was  swiftly  closing  down 
on  all. 

I  thought  of  Kari  as  I  had  known  her  in  the  old 
days,  a  gentle,  frightened  child  following  me  through 
the  blue  ranges  of  the  Astrolabe,  almost  worshiping 
me  as  her  rescuer  and  protector  —  a  growing  girl  in 
the  Mission,  waxing  coquettish  and  pretty  as  she  ma- 
tured, but  always  with  a  ready  welcome  for  "  Lineti " 
when  he  called  —  a  woman,  my  wife,  my  little  brown 
bird  in  our  own  little  nest,  loving  me  after  the  ca- 
pricious fashion  of  a  native,  yet  somehow  making 
warm  my  heart  for  her  —  and  afterwards  — 

No!  I  put  that  thought  away.  She  was  dead.  I 
would  remember  her  as  I  had  loved  her,  as  I  had 
seen  her  last.  The  other  Kari,  the  wild  Papuan  sav- 
age, with  all  the  evil  nature  of  her  cannibal  ancestors 
suddenly  awaked  and  brought  to  daylight  by  the  black 
influence  of  the  blackest  hearted  of  men  —  that  Kari 
I  would  forget.  She  slept  in  the  heart  of  these  lonely 
coral  seas,  let  her  sins  against  me  sleep  with  her. 

The  play  was  played  out  —  the  last  act  of  that  long 
tragedy  over.  I  was  free  to  begin  my  life  again. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TJ  AIN,  rain!  such  rain  as  one  knows  only  in  New 
-*-^-  Guinea  —  stupefying  one  with  its  day-long  roar 
on  the  iron  roofs,  jetting  out  of  the  overflow  pipes 
of  the  tanks  in  a  solid  bar  of  water  that  digs  deep 
holes  in  the  ground;  beating  down  the  great  heads 
of  the  coco-palms  till  their  eighteen-foot  leaves  droop 
like  dying  ferns,  and  interposing  a  wall  of  tumbling 
water  between  the  jail  and  the  spongy  grass-plot,  and 
the  belt  of  alligator-haunted  bush  that  runs  along 
the  margin  of  the  beach.  The  big  island  out  there, 
that  seems,  on  a  clear  "  southeast "  day,  to  float  on 
the  verge  of  the  horizon  like  some  purple  orchid  bloom 
blown  down  from  the  Astrolabe  ranges,  looks  like 
nothing  but  a  dark  smear  or  a  piece  of  wet  blotting- 
paper,  this  wretched  morning.  The  native  prisoners 
have  been  taken  off  their  road  work,  and  are  squatting 
on  the  long  veranda,  passing  round  their  bau-baus 
'( bamboo  pipes)  from  hand  to  hand,  and  chewing  betel 
nut  and  lime.  They  look  cheerful  and  happy,  and 
some  of  them  are  laughing  consumedly  at  a  yarn 
which  is  being  recited  by  a  murderer  from  the  Hydro- 
graphers'  Range  country,  who  is  doing  a  year  in  jail 
for  eating  his  wife — "the  reason  assigned  for  the 
rash  act "  being  that  the  lady  talked  too  much. 

.     .     .     They  flutter  like  wild  birds  in  a  cage,  at 
first,  these  native  prisoners,   and  then,   just   as   one 

100 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  101 

begins  to  think  they  will  break  their  hearts  and  die, 
they  settle  down  quite  comfortably,  and  take  to  their 
regular  meals  and  work  without  giving  any  trouble. 
Freedom  is  ahead  of  them  somewhere,  somehow  — 
a  good  many  moons,  whether  six  or  sixty  they  don't 
know,  and  it  is  all  the  same  to  them,  since  their  minds 
don't  stretch  beyond  the  first  figure  in  any  case.  And 
there  is  more  food  here  than  they  have  ever  had  in 
their  lives.  And  they  have  blankets  and  tin  spoons, 
and  other  luxuries  they'd  give  you  their  wives  and 
children  for,  out  back.  And  Wilks  is  indulgent ;  when 
there  is  no  work  to  do  (quite  often  there  is  not)  he 
lets  them  sit  and  yarn  and  smoke  by  the  hour,  on  the 
veranda,  or  in  the  shade  of  the  water  tanks.  They 
are  a  very  clubbable  folk,  these  Papuans.  Every  jun- 
gle or  river  village  has  a  great  club-house,  where  the 
bucks  of  the  tribe  sit  and  boast  to  one  another,  and 
the  old  men  tell  one  another  how  much  better  things 
were  done  on  the  river  when  they  were  young  —  and 
somebody  gnaws  a  rib,  and  somebody  picks  a  tibia, 
and  somebody  hospitably  gives  his  neighbor  a  bite  off 
a  skull,  and  everyone  is  sociable  and  jolly.  .  .  . 

Minus  the  ribs  and  skulls,  it  is  much  the  same  sort 
of  thing  here  on  wet  days.  Yes,  I  think  the  colored 
ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  jail  is  fairly  happy. 
As  for  the  white  fraction  — 

Wilks  interrupted  me  just  then,  coming  in  for  some 
tools.  He  stopped  to  tell  me  the  yarn  that  the  Hydro- 
graphers'  native  had  been  spinning ;  a  warder  from  the 
East  End  had  interpreted  it  for  him.  Here  it  is,  word 
for  word  — 


102  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  I  think  very  small  of  you  people  on  the  coast. 
You  are  afraid  to  go  inland,  you  never  see  the  people 
and  houses  in  the  mountains.  I  have  seen  everything 
in  Papua,  everything,  everything,  everything;  I  have 
walked  about  very  much  when  I  was  with  the  police 
many  moons  ago.  One  time  I  went  far,  far,  far 
inland,  up  into  the  high,  high,  very  high  hills. 
And  the  people  are  silly  like  bats,  and  I  could  do  what 
I  liked  with  them.  There  was  one  village  where  they 
all  had  tails  like  kangaroos,  and  they  were  very  silly, 
silly,  silly  people  there,  and  I  played  tricks  on  them. 
They  had  holes  in  the  floors  of  their  houses  for  their 
tails  to  hang  down  when  they  went  to  sleep,  and  I 
used  to  go  under  the  holes  at  night,  and  I  would  tie 
a  knot  in  every  man's  tail  as  it  hung  down,  and  then 
I  would  run  through  the  village,  and  scream, 
scream,  scream  that  the  enemy  were  coming  with 
spears  and  arrows,  and  all  the  people  would  jump  up. 
But  the  knots  in  their  tails  would  catch,  and  they 
would  fall  down,  fall  down,  fall  down,  howling,  and 
I  would  laugh,  I  would  laugh  till  there  was  no  more 
breath  in  my  belly." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  yarn?  "  I  asked. 

Wilks  sucked  his  pipe,  and  seemed  to  listen  to  the 
bellowing  rain. 

"  I  dono,"  he  said  meditatively.  "  If  I  was  'ome 
in  Poplar,  or  livin'  in  barracks  in  Agrar  or  Calcutter, 
same  as  in  the  old  days,  I'd  laugh  at  all  that  'eathen 
rubbish  fast  enough.  But  this  place  ain't  Poplar. 
Not  yet  Indiar.  And  —  dono." 


.WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  103 

"  Why,"  he  added,  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  turning  his  childlike  blue  English  eyes  on  me  — 
"  Why,  there's  that  Johnnie  from  Mekeo  —  the  one 
that's  in  for  roastin'  a  sorcerer  alive  on  a  stick  — 
he  says  to  me  the  other  day  that  he  sor  that  sorcerer 
with  his  own  eyes  kill  his  brother  —  the  man's  brother 

—  by  giving  him  puri-puri  stuff,  and  the  boy  was  so 
dead  they  stuck  a  spear  into  him,  and  the  gas  came 
out  bustin',  like  when  you  pick  a  child's  balloon.     And 
when  'e'd  been  dead  twenty- four  hours  —  which  is 
too  long  for  a  man  to  be  above  ground  in  this  country 

—  the  sorcerer,  he  made  the  boy  alive  again,  and  the 
Mekeo  man  sor  him  walkin'  about,  and  talked  to  him. 
And  then  in  another  day  he  died  again,  and  the  sor- 
cerer, he  dried  up  that  time,  and  wouldn't  or  couldn't 
do  nothing,  so  he  planted  the  boy,  and  went  for  the 
sorcerer.     It's   as   true   as   I'm   standing   here,    Mr. 
Lynch.     And  if  you  please,  sir,  I'll  trouble  you  to 
pick  up  all  those  papers,  and  put  your  cell  in  order  — 
a  gentleman  of  your  education  should  know  better 
than    to    let    his    cell    get    into    a    proper    hurrah's- 
nest!" 

He  went  away,  and  I  tidied  up  the  place  —  it  was 
something  to  have  even  so  much  occupation.  Then  I 
sat  listening  to  the  thunder  of  the  endless  rain  — 
there  had  already  been  five  inches,  though  it  was  not 
three  o'clock  —  until  the  noise  nearly  maddened  me, 
and  I  took  out  this  book  to  escape  for  a  little  from 
myself. 

For  this  is  one  of  the  bad  days.  They  come  again 
and  again,  and  all  the  pluck  one  has  is  wanted,  to  pull 


104  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

one  through  without  "breaking  out."  Breaking  out! 
the  phrase  means  nothing  when  you  read  it  in  some 
police  report  at  home:  but  let  anyone  try  for  himself 
what  it  means  to  endure  years  of  confinement,  and  he'll 
have  news  to  tell  me. 

Yet  one  must  endure,  and  without  complaint.  For 
when  a  punishment  is  deserved  and  just,  it  is  best  to 
take  it  with  one's  mouth  shut. 

I  am  being  punished  for  breaking  through  the  fence 
that  reserves  the  right  of  retributive  action  to  certain 
classes.  Soldiers  may  kill  in  revenge  for  national  in- 
sults. Judges  may  kill  for  the  safety  of  society.  In 
nearly  all  primitive  communities,  gold-mining  dis- 
tricts and  so  forth,  where  there  is  no  law  but  that  of 
natural  justice,  a  committee  of  leading  men  will  hang 
half  a  dozen  offenders  up  to  a  tree  before  breakfast, 
and  no  one  will  blame  them.  But  if  you  are  not  a 
licensed  slaughterman,  and  if  the  law  of  civilization 
obtains  in  your  country,  you  are  a  murderer  if  you  do 
what  a  hundred  thousand  decent  men  would  do  to- 
morrow—  were  there  no  public  opinion  to  hold  them 
back.  The  man  who  has  never  felt  that  he  could 
and  would  kill  another  without  remorse,  did  he  not 
fear  the  consequences,  must  be  made  of  very  different 
clay  from  most. 

Do  I  complain?  Not  of  the  law.  Having  carried 
out  justice  for  myself,  taken  the  chances,  and  found 
them  turn  up  wrong  way  out  for  me  —  as  I  knew  they 
might  —  I  have  nothing  to  complain  about.  I  knew 
that  everyone  could  not  be  allowed  to  act  as  I  acted. 
Whether  it  be  right,  as  I  hold,  or  very  wrong  indeed, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  105 

as  my  kindly,  though  interfering  visitors  from  the 
mission  have  tried  to  impress  on  me. 

If  I  have  a  grievance,  it  is  simply  this  —  that  so- 
ciety makes  you  pay,  not  only  the  just  penalty  for 
your  offense  against  its  laws,  but  also  the  unjust  pen- 
alty of  the  loss  of  your  whole  life's  prospects. 

Four  years  for  manslaughter  in  Portland,  or  Berlin, 
or  New  York,  or  French  Cayenne,  or  here  in  Port 
Moresby's  little  toy  jail  —  on  parole,  with  books  and 
light  work,  and  meals  from  the  tin  hotel  —  it  is  all 
the  same.  One  and  all  mean  ruin.  One  and  all 
mean  a  crippled  life:  a  man  maimed  in  a  limb  of  his 
character,  and  limping  through  all  the  rest  of  his 
journey.  Is  that  just? 

But  then  —  your  friends,  the  true  ones,  will  stand 
by  you  .  .  .  will  they  not? 

There  was  a  picture  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of,  in  the 
year  I  spent  at  my  London  crammer's.  They  had 
it  in  the  drawing-room:  it  was  an  excellent  copy  of 
a  painting  by  a  new  artist  —  Burne-Jones.  It  rep- 
resented a  man  and  a  woman,  dressed  in  some  curious 
mediaeval  costume,  sitting  on  a  heap  of  ruins,  under 
a  stormy  sky.  They  were  surrounded  by  stones  and 
briars,  and  there  was  not  a  living  creature  in  all  the 
landscape  but  themselves.  Yet  you  could  see  that  the 
storm,  and  the  loneliness,  and  the  catastrophe,  what- 
ever it  was,  that  had  beggared  them  and  made  them 
homeless,  had  no  power  to  touch  them,  since  it  had 
left  him  to  her,  and  her  to  him.  They  were  holding 
hands,  and  looking  in  one  another's  eyes :  and  what 
they  saw  there  seemed  to  be  enough  for  them. 


io6  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

On  bad  days  —  like  to-day  —  I  find  myself  remem- 
bering that  picture.  I  think,  if  I  had  it  here,  I  should 
tear  it  into  rags ;  and  throw  the  rags  down  the  north- 
west wind,  howling  on  its  way  to  sea.  For  it  is  a 
false  picture,  false  as  the  Father  of  all  lies. 

There  are  no  such  women. 

I  am  not  writing  an  autobiography,  so  I  may  pass 
over  a  good  deal  of  what  happened  after  the  loss  of 
the  Orokolo.  In  brief,  I  sold  my  cutter,  abandoned 
Clare  Island,  and  took  up  my  abode  in  the  Central 
Division,  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  Eastern 
coast  and  its  memories.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
forget. 

I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  cared  particularly, 
even  had  I  found  that  Port  Moresby  knew  the  true 
story  of  Sanderson's  end.  But  it  did  not.  The  loss 
of  the  Orokolo  was  known  —  pieces  of  her  wreckage 
had  been  sighted  in  the  islands,  and  Papua  at  large 
drew  its  own  conclusions,  when  Sanderson  was  seen 
no  more.  The  death  of  Kari  and  the  burning  of  my 
plantation  were  known,  simply  because  I  told  them; 
but  nobody  asked  me  for  details.  It  is  possible  that 
I  did  not  look  as  if  I  should  encourage  questions. 
There  are  two  sides  to  the  possession  of  an  alleged 
ugly  temper. 

I  was  not  penniless,  for  I  had  over  two  hundred 
lodged  with  a  North  Queensland  bank,  and  the  sale 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  107 

of  the  boat  had  brought  me  a  hundred  and  eighty. 
I  might  have  done  something  towards  the  start  of 
another  plantation  with  this,  but  the  idea  did  not 
appeal  to  me.  It  may  have  been  that  the  settling-down 
impulse  had  worn  out,  as  it  does  only  too  soon  with 
us  of  the  gypsy  breed,  how  much  soever  we  may 
hanker  after  the  unchanging  rest,  and  the  year  after 
year  peace,  and  the  little  quiet  home  of  our  very  own 
—  for  a  time.  The  time  comes  to  an  end :  that's  the 
trouble  of  it. 
Well, 

"  Send  the  road  is  clear  before  you, 
When  the  old  spring  fret  comes  o'er  you." 

because,  if  you  are  one  of  the  wandering  breed,  you'll 
go,  whether  it  is  clear  or  not,  and  Heaven  help  any- 
thing or  anyone  that  stands  in  your  way ! 

There's  no  spring  in  New  Guinea,  but  for  all  that, 
"  the  old  spring  fret  came  o'er  me  "  very  strongly  just 
then,  and  I  had  not  been  a  week  in  Port  Moresby 
before  I  was  laying  in  stores,  and  engaging  boys,  for 
a  bird-shooting  trip  into  the  interior.  Bird  of  Para- 
dise and  other  skins  fetch  excellent  prices  now-a-days, 
and  there  was  no  more  profitable  way  in  which  I  could 
have  employed  my  time. 

I  had  no  white  man  with  me.  I  was  always  good 
company  for  myself  when  I  chose:  there's  no  pair 
of  mates  in  Australasia  suit  each  other  better  than 
Hugh  and  I.  Garia  was  with  me,  as  usual:  he  had 
become  quite  a  devoted  servant  by  now,  though  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  on  what  grounds,  as  I  was  never 


108  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

indulgent  to  my  boys,  or  showed  any  special  feeling 
for  them  —  probably  because  I  hadn't  any. 

I  can  tell  you,  the  hills  were  calling,  in  that  clear 
southeast  weather,  when  the  gray-green  eucalyptus 
country  all  round  Port  Moresby  was  crackling  with 
dry  heat,  and  the  tracks  were  soft  with  dust,  and 
the  blue  wall  of  the  Astrolabe  Range,  as  it  shows 
out  from  the  top  of  Paga  Hill,  rose  sharp  and  clear 
into  the  sun-bleached  sky.  I  was  glad  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  to  tramp  off  at  the  head  of  my  train 
of  naked  mop-haired  carriers,  through  the  township 
and  along  the  cliff,  and  inland  across  the  wide  sun- 
baked flats,  going  towards  the  "  Never-Never  "  once 
again. 

And  surely,  it  was  for  luck  (I  thought)  that,  just 
as  we  were  leaving  the  inhabited  country,  a  beautiful 
chestnut  mare,  ridden  by  a  slim  girl  in  a  holland 
habit,  should  sweep  down  on  the  procession  from  be- 
hind a  sudden  turn,  to  give  us  our  last  glimpse  of  the 
world  we  were  leaving  behind,  in  the  pleasantest  pos- 
sible form! 

It  was  the  Governor's  daughter,  of  course  — 
Stephanie  Hammond.  Everyone  in  Papua  knew  her 
name  by  this  time,  and  guessed  that,  being  an  only 
child,  she  had  been  called  for  her  father,  Stephen 
Hammond.  I  had  not  seen  her  during  the  week,  of 
my  stay  in  port,  but  I  had  heard  of  hardly  anything 
or  anybody  else.  They  said  she  was  going  to  marry 
the  Government  Secretary:  but  the  rumor  was  so  far 
without  any  official  sanction.  As  Carolan  was  verjr 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  109 

well  connected,  and  would  be  well  off,  and  as  he  was 
not  more  than  twenty-seven,  good-looking,  steady,  and 
popular,  most  of  us  —  the  outer  barbarians  of  Papuan 
society  —  thought  the  event  could  only  be  a  matter 
of  time. 

She  came  cantering  along  the  grass,  sitting  straight 
and  gracefully,  her  hair  braided  in  endless  rows  all 
round  her  head  under  her  sun-helmet,  her  slight 
pointed  foot  in  its  English  boot  just  showing  under 
her  habit.  As  we  came  nearer,  she  checked  the  mare, 
and  tried  to  make  her  stand  —  the  beautiful  creature 
was  dancing  and  fidgeting  at  the  line  of  loaded  car- 
riers, and  seemed  not  a  little  inclined  to  bolt. 

Of  course,  I  could  do  nothing  less  than  come  for- 
ward and  take  the  mare's  bridle,  lifting  my  hat  and 
apologizing,  as  I  did  so.  And  thus  we  met  face  to 
face  for  the  first  time  —  Stephanie  Hammond  and  I. 

The  mare  quieted  down  the  instant  I  touched  her. 
I  had  known  she  would  —  there  is  nothing  that  goes 
upon  four  legs  or  two  wings  that  I  cannot  tame  when 
I  want.  The  rider,  on  the  other  hand,  colored  a  little 
and  flashed  a  quick,  curious  look  at  me,  her  lips  falling 
slightly  apart.  For  the  moment  I  thought  her  fright- 
ened—  she  was  such  a  fragile  slip  of  a  young  girl, 
and  the  mare  was  really  a  fiery  mount  for  her.  Then 
I  saw  that  she  was  not  thinking  of  her  horse  at  all, 
but  of  me,  and  that  she  had  (in  the  language  of  popu- 
lar gossip),  "heard  things,"  and  didn't  know  what  to 
make  of  them,  or  of  myself. 

-It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  could  read  her 


I  io  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

expression.  Then  she  drew  down  the  blinds,  as  a 
society  woman  can,  and  presented  a  perfectly  blank 
front  to  my  curious  gaze,  as  she  made  her  little  speech 
of  courteous  thanks.  She  looked  steadily  at  the  am- 
ber handle  of  her  whip  while  she  spoke,  and  did  not 
show  me  her  eyes  again. 

But  I  had  had  one  look  in  right  through  those  blue 
windows  before  they  were  curtained,  and  I  was  not 
offended  by  what  I  saw  there. 

"  Please  allow  me  to  hold  your  horse  until  the  car- 
riers are  well  away,"  I  said,  keeping  my  grasp  of  the 
bridle. 

"  You  have  quieted  her  wonderfully,"  answered 
Stephanie  Hammond.  She  put  the  snaffle  rein  inside 
the  curb,  and  her  eyes  followed  her  hand.  "  Can  you 
always  quiet  a  horse  by  touching  it?" 

"  Usually,"  I  said,  enjoying  the  sight  of  her  eye- 
lashes, which  turned  up  quite  wonderfully  at  the  ends. 
She  had  a  pointed  chin  with  a  dimple  in  it,  and  her 
lips  had  the  perfect  surface  of  a  flower  petal.  .  . 

.  .  .  Sometimes,  long  ago,  riding  through  the 
green  forest  tracks  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  I  have 
come  upon  a  bed  of  sensitive  plant  beside  the  road, 
and  have  wondered  to  see  how  surely  those  delicate 
leaflets  felt  the  approach  of  the  heavy  hoofs,  many 
yards  away,  and  shrank  down  as  they  came  near. 
.  .  .  Can  it  have  been,  that  morning  on  the  lonely 
out-back  road,  that  the  soul  of  the  young  girl,  a  hun- 
dred times  more  sensitive  than  the  mimosa  leaf,  felt  in 
all  its  delicate  fibers  the  near  approach  of  something 
strange,  strong,  and  terrifying,  and  instinctively  drew 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  in 

back  into  itself?  .  .  .  The  Governor's  daughter 
never  looked  up,  but  as  I  continued  to  delight  my 
woman-starved  eyes  on  the  sweetness  of  her  face,  she 
grew  slowly  pink,  down  to  the  very  edge  of  her  dress. 

"  You  rude  brute! "  I  said  to  myself.  The  carriers 
were  almost  out  of  sight  round  the  turn  in  the  road. 
I  let  go  my  hold  of  the  bridle,  drew  my  hand  once 
down  the  chestnut's  satiny  neck,  in  the  way  that  a 
horse  likes,  and  stepped  back. 

"  I  think  your  horse  will  be  all  right  now,"  I  said. 
"  I'm  extremely  sorry  we  scared  her." 

"  Please  don't  trouble  about  that :  there  was  no  harm 
done,"  said  the  sweet  voice  —  it  was  a  very  sweet 
voice  indeed.  "  Thank  you  very  much  for  holding 
her.  Good-by." 

.  .  .  Had  she  looked  up  again,  or  had  she  not? 
The  flying  hoofs  of  the  mare  were  far  away  down  the 
road,  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  carriers  were  clear  out 
of  sight.  There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  wind  in  the 
eucalyptus  trees,  and  the  harsh  clatter  of  a  leather- 
neck on  a  bough. 

I  turned  round,  and  got  on  my  way  again. 

"I  believe  you  didn't  —  you  perfect  darling!"  I 
said. 

I  would  like  to  write  a  good  deal  about  that  bird- 
shooting  trip  only  that  it  has  nothing  in  itself  to  do 
with  the  story.  I'd  like  to  try  and  tell  —  though  no- 
body could  tell  —  how  the  country  looks  up  among  the 
high  ranges,  when  you  come  out  of  your  tent  of  a 
morning,  into  the  air  that  is  like  a  sea  of  crystal,  and 


ii2  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

stand  beside  the  fly,  looking  miles  and  miles  away, 
over  cone-shaped  and  castle-shaped  peaks  of  every 
shade  of  purple  and  blue,  and  down  enormous  gorges 
that  are  fiery  green  in  the  sun,  and  black  as  black  vel- 
vet in  the  dark  at  the  bottom,  with  a  streak  of  foamy 
white  showing  here  and  there  to  mark  the  course  of 
some  big  river  that  has  never  a  name  or  a  place  on  the 
map.  You  think  the  side  of  that  gorge  is  within  a 
cricket-ball  throw,  until  you  see  white  specks  like  flies 
flitting  up  and  down  its  walls,  and  then  you  understand 
that  those  are  cockatoos,  and  that  the  scale  of  the 
whole  landscape  is  so  huge  that  you  yourself  scarcely 
stand  for  the  value  of  an  ant  in  a  scuttle  of  coals. 
.  .  .  Your  boys  are  still  asleep,  and  there  isn'4  a 
native  village  in  a  day's  walk,  and  not  a  white  man  but 
yourself  has  ever  climbed  these  ranges.  The  place  is 
as  God  made  it,  and  as  it  will  remain,  colossal,  still, 
and  calm,  for  many  a  score  of  years  after  the  tide  of 
civilization  has  swept  into  every  other  quiet  nook  on 
earth.  It  belongs  to  the  wild  creatures  of  the  moun- 
tain —  the  wallabys  and  wild  boars  and  pythons ;  to 
the  birds  and  creeping  things ;  to  the  marvelous  butter- 
flies, big  and  swift  as  swallows,  that  flash  in  gorgeous 
blues  and  greens,  and  gilded  orange,  and  gay  black  and 
white  and  crimson,  about  every  rare  cluster  of  blossom 
that  lights  up  the  somber  forests. 

Lovely  and  peaceful  as  they  are,  you  make  your  way 
into  these  unknown  lands  under  no  truce  with  Nature. 
Slip  across  the  edge  of  safety  anywhere,  anyhow,  and 
she  will  sweep  her  ocean  of  primeval  forest  over  you 
as  passionlessly  and  relentlessly  as  she  sweeps  her  At- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  113 

lantic  or  Pacific  over  some  struggling  ship  overtaken 
by  a  storm.  Let  but  a  man's  carriers  desert  him  in 
these  out-back  wildernesses  —  let  a  rock  fall  and  lame 
him  —  and  it  is  all  New  Guinea  to  a  broken  biscuit 
that  the  bower-birds  will  find  a  white  skeleton,  well- 
cleaned  by  the  ants,  under  the  fern  when  the  rainy  sea- 
son is  over,  and  will  have  a  couple  of  phalanges,  and 
a  loose  vertebra  or  two,  to  put  among  the  bright  bits 
of  shell  and  stone  that  decorate  their  dancing-grounds. 
.  .  .  "  On  ne  badine  pas  " —  with  the  bush  country 
of  Papua. 

There  was  no  question  of  trouble  in  my  expedition, 
happily.  My  boys  were  a  decent  lot,  and  contented 
with  their  job.  Our  swags  full  of  the  beads  and  tom- 
ahawks and  tobacco  brought  us  sweet  potatoes  and 
yams  in  plenty,  at  the  villages,  and  our  shot-guns 
saved  us  from  encroaching  too  much  upon  the  tinned 
provisions.  We  did  very  well  in  birds:  I  had  a  cou- 
ple of  hundred  skins  of  birds  of  Paradise,  every  kind, 
from  the  common  Raggiana  to  the  rare  blue  of  the 
high  ranges,  besides  many  of  the  giant  Gaura  pigeons, 
and  scarlet  king-birds,  and  miscellaneous  prey  of  other 
kinds,  by  the  end  of  a  couple  of  months.  The  stores 
were  lasting  splendidly :  we  hadn't  met  with  any  hostile 
tribes  —  at  least,  none  that  I  could  not  manage  to 
make  peace  with,  though  most  of  them  were  inclined 
to  spear  us  at  first  sight,  through  sheer  alarm.  I  had 
found  colors  of  gold  in  two  creeks  that  were  within  a 
reasonable  distance  of  the  coast,  and  hoped  I  might  do 
well  out  of  the  discovery  later  on.  I  was  fit,  and  my 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

boys  were  contented,  and  it  seemed  that  the  best  thing 
I  could  do,  undoubtedly,  was  to  keep  on  the  trip  for 
another  two  months. 

.  .  .  Instead  of  which,  I  struck  my  camp  one 
morning  at  six,  told  the  carriers  we  were  bound  for 
home  again,  and  started  off  down  an  atrocious  gully 
that  was  called  a  track,  with  the  compass  pointing  me 
to  Port  Moresby,  as  fast  as  ever  I  could  go. 

The  truth  was,  that  trip  was  haunted. 

By  nights,  when  I'd  be  lying  on  my  bed  of  cross- 
way  sticks,  under  the  low  roof  of  the  fly,  with  a  blanket 
pulled  up  round  my  shoulders, —  the  moon,  as  round 
and  white  as  a  shilling,  looking  in  under  the  V-shaped 
door,  and  the  frogs  booming  out  a  Wagner  chorus 
somewhere  in  the  river-gorge  below,  I  used  to  think  of 
what  we  had  been  doing  during  the  day,  and  see  it  all 
over  again  —  the  five- foot  cassowary  that  had  lifted 
its  great  blue  helmet  out  of  the  bush,  right  beside  me, 
as  I  was  sighting  for  a  long  shot  at  a  hornbill  —  the 
gorgeous  flash  of  a  crimson  bird  of  Paradise,  shooting 
like  a  comet  across  some  sunlit  valley  —  the  waterfall 
I  had  discovered,  four  hundred  feet  high,  dropping 
straight  as  a  plumb  line  into  a  boiling  pothole  as  big 
as  a  city  square  —  the  skinning  and  preparing  of  the 
birds  after  sunset,  the  lazy  smoke  by  the  camp-fire  be- 
fore turning  in,  ...  Musing  dreamily  over  all 
these  things,  and  watching,  with  half-shut  eyes,  the 
flutter  of  the  leaves  outside  the  door,  I  would  listen 
to  the  murmur  of  the  river  over  its  stones  far  away 
below,  until  the  moon  and  the  tent  and  the  swaying 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  115 

bamboo  boughs  faded  away,  and  the  song  of  the  water 
grew  ever  faint  and  fainter,  and  I  was  .  .  . 

No,  not  asleep!  for  just  at  that  moment  something 
always  wakened  me  with  a  start  —  a  face  that  grew 
out  of  the  darkness,  circled  round  by  a  luminous  haze, 
and  hovered  close  to  my  pillow,  looking  at  me.  It 
came  and  went  almost  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  for  it 
always  wakenec^  me  instantly,  and  once  I  was  awake,  it 
was  there  no  more.  It  startled  me,  though  I  am  not 
easily  startled,  and  I  used  to  spring  half  up,  and  stare 
round  the  tent,  looking  into  every  corner,  and  wonder- 
ing where  I  was.  .  .  . 

Still  the  calm  moon,  and  the  swaying  fronds  of  the 
bamboo,  and  the  whisper  of  the  stream.  ...  I 
was  in  the  Owen  Stanley  Range,  alone  with  my  boys. 
.  .  .  The  camp  fire  was  leaping  and  dying  outside 
the  tent.  The  wind  blew  down  from  the  icy  summits, 
lonesome-sounding  and  chill.  .  .  .  She  was  not 
here. 

Yet  I  had  seen  her  face,  her  blue  eyes,  her  dark  soft 
hair  woven  in  innumerable  braids,  her  mouth,  with  its 
curious  wax-like  smoothness  and  dark  red  color, — 
and  she  was  looking  at  me,  straight  and  steadily,  as  she 
had  not  looked  in  real  life.  Her  lips  were  a  little 
apart,  her  eyes  showed  wonder,  and  a  certain  question- 
ing. And  always,  the  little  haze  of  light  clung  about 
her  head. 

Now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  had  seen  a  good 
many  charming  faces  hovering  through  my  dreams,  in 
the  wandering  years  gone  by  —  faces  of  many  nation- 


n6     WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALC 

alities,  and  many  kinds  of  loveliness :  some  that  weren't 
even  lovely,  but  that  one  liked  as  well  as  if  they  were: 
some  —  Well,  this  is  not  my  "  carte  du  Pays  du  Ten- 
dre."  .  .  .  Everyone  who  has  ever  been  in  love, 
after  any  of  the  various  ways  of  loving,  knows 
that  this  appearance  of  a  face  in  the  darkness,  circled 
with  light,  is  as  common  as  fancy  itself.  Who  has  not 
read  of  it  a  hundred  times,  in  poetry,  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different? Who  does  not  at  least  remember  Tenny- 
son's beautiful  picture  of  the 

"  Passionate,  pale,  proud  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom 
profound." 

in  "  Maud,"  the  poem  loved  by  lovers? 

But  of  all  the  dark  and  fair,  and  fierce  and  gentle, 
and  budding  and  full-blown  beauties  who  had  played 
this  pretty  trick  on  me  in  old  times,  not  one  had  looked 
at  me  as  if  she  saw  me.  Now  this  one  did.  It  was 
that,  that  used  to  waken  me  so  suddenly,  in  the  first 
light  sleep  of  night  and  sometimes  even  in  the  deep 
dead  rest  that  comes  with  the  cool  of  dawn.  This 
face,  unlike  any  of  its  predecessors  (Stephanie,  human 
snowdrop  that  you  were,  you  would  scarcely  have 
cared  to  be  classed  with  some  of  them)  was  not  a 
mere  mechanical  painting  in  the  dark,  of  something 
that  I  had  seen  before,  line  for  line  and  color  for  color. 
It  was  a  vital,  clinging  entity  with  an  existence  of  its 
own, —  and  it  saw  me. 

Sometimes  it  appeared  shadowed  by  the  white  sun- 
helmet,  sometimes  without.  I  saw  it  look  pale  at 
times,  and  bright  at  other  times.  Once  it  came  with  all 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  117 

its  hair  floating  like  seaweed  in  water  about  the  head ; 
that  time,  its  eyes  were  sad  and  dreamy,  and  shad- 
owed by  some  uncomprehended  trouble.  But  how- 
ever it  came,  it  shook  my  nerve  each  time  as  never  a 
cannibal  in  war-paint,  poising  his  spear  at  my  breast, 
could  have  shaken  it.  And  the  strangest  thing  about 
the  whole  business  was  that  I  was  really  not  in  love 
with  Stephanie. 

The  slightness  of  our  acquaintance  would  have  been 
no  protection  against  such  a  catastrophe,  if  I  had  been 
inclined  to  it  —  experience  at  least  had  taught  me  that. 
I  admired  the  Governor's  daughter  extremely,  and 
thought  her  not  at  all  like  any  other  girl  I  had  ever 
known  —  there  was  something  so  fragile,  yet  so  gal- 
lant, so  tender,  yet  so  brave,  about  this  sailor's  child 
with  her  father's  name.  But  I  did  not  want  to  kiss 
her,  or  sit  out  under  the  palms  in  the  moonlight  with 
my  arm  round  her  waist,  talking  honey-treacle  non- 
sense —  or  to  hold  that  slim  foot  of  hers  in  my  hand, 
and  spring  her  to  the  saddle,  or  set  my  shoulder  for 
her  light  weight  when  she  dismounted,  standing  so  that 
she  would  be  obliged  to  rest  there  just  a  moment 
longer  than  was  strictly  necessary.  ...  At  least, 
not  any  more  than  I  wanted  to  do  any  or  all  of  these 
things  for  any  charming  girl,  on  general  principles. 

Then,  what  did  it  all  mean  ? 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  an  answer  to  that  question 

—  except  that  answer  that  I  made  for  myself,  when 
I  struck  camp,  and  started  away  hot-foot  for  Port 
Moresby.     The  vision,  fancy  —  call  it  what  one  may 

—  was  certainly  getting  on  my  nerves.     I  had  some 


ri8  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

idea  that  I  might  escape  from  it,  in  escaping  from  these 
lonely,  unknown  ranges,  where  fancy  might  well  run 
wild  —  and,  in  any  case,  I  had  not  much  notion  of 
stopping  up  in  the  Owen  Stanley  Country  with  the 
ghost  of  a  girl  haunting  me,  when  the  girl  herself  was 
alive  to  exorcise  the  shade,  only  a  few  days  away. 

It  took  us  over  a  fortnight  to  get  back :  some  days  we 
made  twelve  miles  or  more,  going  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
set, some  days  less  than  half  of  that.  It  has  been  said 
that  travel  in  the  far  interior  of  New  Guinea  resembles 
nothing  so  much  as  the  progress  of  an  ant  up  and  down 
the  teeth  of  a  comb;  and  indeed,  the  simile  is  not  far 
out  I  have  a  decided  objection,  myself,  after  a  hard 
day's  climbing  up  and  down,  to  be  obliged  to  camp  in 
full  view  of  the  small  spot  from  which  I  set  out  early 
in  the  morning:  but  in  some  parts  of  the  high  ranges, 
that  is  the  commonest  of  trials. 

It  happened  one  evening  that  we  camped  on  a  shoul- 
der of  the  range,  just  beside  a  drop  that  showed  you 
half  New  Guinea  lying  all  pale  and  blue  and  silver- 
threaded  with  rivers,  right  under  the  lee  of  an  over- 
hanging fringe  of  green  pitcher-plants.  A  small 
waterfall  slipped  down  the  cliff  with  a  pleasant  mur- 
mur, off  to  the  right,  and  after  the  boys  had  filled  the 
billy-cans,  and  were  starting  to  make  tea  and  boil  rice, 
I  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  fall,  and  found  a  dry 
stone  where  I  could  sit  and  smoke. 

It  sounded  very  sweetly,  murmuring  away  there  in 
the  gathering  dusk,  with  the  casuarinas  sighing  over- 
head, and  the  faint  crackle  of  the  camp-fires  just  audi- 
ble in  the  background.  I  listened  rather  lazily  to  it 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  119 

for  a  minute  or  two,  wondering  what  it  reminded  me 
of.  Then  I  remembered  —  Stephanie  Hammond's 
voice ! 

"  This  is  beyond  a  joke !  "  I  said,  getting  to  my  feet 
and  banging  the  ashes  out  of  my  pipe.  "  How  can  a 
girl's  voice  be  like  a  hundred  tons  of  water  falling 
over  a  cliff?  Next  thing  I  know,  I  shall  be  saying 
that  her  smile  is  the  morning,  and  her  eyes  are  the 
stars,  and  that  the  birds  are  singing  her  praises  —  like 
a  blessed  poet  in  a  blessed  Elizabethan  madrigal !  If 
I  were  in  love  with  her  —  but  I  never  did  cut  any  of 
those  silly  sixpenny-ballad  capers  even  when  I  was  in 
love  —  with  any  of  them  —  and  so  far  as  this  goes,  I 
swear  I  shouldn't  worry  if  I'd  never  see  her  again  in 
my  life!" 

It  will  hardly  be  believed,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  two  days  later,  having  thought  scarce  a  bit  about 
the  Governor's  daughter  in  the  interval,  I  heard  a  little 
green  bird  say  "  Stephanie !  Stepha-nie !  "  as  clearly  as 
if  it  were  talking.  I  had  always  thought  that  bird  said 
"  Bread  and  cheese  "  before :  but  it  seemed  to  have 
changed  its  tune.  And  on  the  next  day  we  had  to 
cross  a  very  high  shoulder  of  the  range,  where  the  air 
grew  damp  and  cold,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  sea 
of  rolling  clouds  below  the  little  native  track  we  fol- 
lowed, and  English  flowers  grew  by  the  way,  lovelier 
than  all  the  blazing  coral-blossoms  and  splendid  f  rangi- 
panni  of  the  plains,  to  the  eye  of  the  northern  born.  I 
found  white  wild  strawberry  flowers  here  in  the  moss, 
and  forget-me-nots,  and  in  one  place  even  violets, 
slight  and  pale,  but  exquisitely  sweet. 


120  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"Violets    .     .     . 
Sweeter  than  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath," 

came  to  my  mind,  as  I  stooped  to  pick  them. 

"  I  don't  think  she  did  look  up,"  I  said  half-aloud, 
sticking  the  flowers  in  the  breast-pocket  of  my  shirt. 
Then  I  fairly  stamped  on  the  ground,  and  wondered 
for  the  twentieth  time  had  the  sun  got  at  my  brain  ? 

We  were  nearing  the  coast  now,  and  as  we  went 
downwards  day  after  day,  it  grew  gradually  hotter, 
until  the  memory  of  those  cool  misty  valleys  where  the 
violets  grew,  far  above  the  clouds,  seemed  like  a  dream 
of  some  past  life  of  bliss.  In  the  low-lying  plains  of 
the  rivers,  crossing  leech-infested  swamps  where  huge 
alligators  lay  hidden,  and  the  torturing  scrub-itch  insect 
clung  to  every  leaf  and  stem,  the  air  was  hot  and  heavy 
as  steam  from  some  gigantic  cauldron,  and  the  carriers 
lagged,  near  as  we  were  to  home.  All  day  I  walked, 
soaked  through  with  heat,  and  sat  at  night  by  my  camp- 
fire  drying  my  few  clothes,  and  making  futile 
"  smudges  "  to  smoke  away  the  bloodthirsty  hordes  of 
mosquitoes.  I  got  thinner  with  the  heat,  and  of 
course  there  was  fever  about,  and  my  temper  suffered 
a  little.  Garia  was  amazingly  patient  when  I  snapped 
at  him,  and  seemed  worried  when  I  would  not  eat :  he 
used  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  his  time  slaving  over  the 
cooking  pots,  trying  to  make  something  that  would 
tempt  my  appetite  —  without  much  result,  as  a  rule. 
He  used  to  watch  me,  too,  with  those  melancholy 
brown-glass  eyes  of  his,  when  I  sat  doing  nothing  in 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  121 

camp  of  an  evening,  and  his  conclusions  seemed  to 
trouble  him. 

"  I  can't  eat  your  beastly  curry,  Garia,"  I  said  one 
night,  handing  back  the  tin  plate  to  him.  "  I  don't 
know  what  stuff  you've  put  in  it." 

"  Me  put  all  same  thing  me  been  put  all-a-time," 
remonstrated  Garia,  holding  the  plate  out.  "  He  good 
curry.  More  better  you  eat  him,  Taubada." 

"  Take  it  away,  I  tell  you,  I've  got  fever,"  I  said 
irritably. 

Garia  laid  a  brown  claw  on  my  forehead,  and  with- 
drew it,  shaking  his  head  until  the  drops  of  the  last 
shower  flew  from  his  bush  of  hair  right  and  left. 

"  No  got,"  he  pronounced. 

"  I've  got  something,"  I  said,  staring  blankly  at  the 
dark  green  rampart  of  forest  that  shut  in  our  little 
camping-ground.  The  moon  would  not  top  that 
mighty  wall  for  hours  to  come,  but  the  sky  was 
sparkling  with  stars.  There  was  something  comforting 
about  those  stars:  they  reminded  you  that  you  and 
everybody  else  would  be  dead  and  buried  by  and  by, 
and  that  nothing  at  all  would  matter  then.  .  .  . 

"  Taubada,"  said  my  Papuan  solemnly.  "  You  no 
got  fever.  You  think  along  one  girl.  I  savvy." 

"  The  devil  you  do !  "  I  said.  "  It  seems  you  know 
more  than  I  do." 

;'  Yess-s,  I  savvy  flenty,  too  much  I  savvy  all  the 
time,"  assented  the  modest  aboriginal.  "  Who  belong 
that  girl,  Taubada?  I  no  hear  him."  (I  have  not 
seen  her.) 

"  There  isn't  any  girl,  Garia,"  I  said. 


122  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  I  think  you  lie  flenty,  Taubada,"  remonstrated 
Garia,  in  a  respectful  tone. 

"  Oh,  all  right,  I'm  lying,"  I  answered.  It  seemed 
too  much  trouble  to  contradict  anybody  about  any- 
thing. 

"Taubada,  that  girl  got  father  belong  her?" 

"  Yes,  got  father.  You're  laboring  under  a  misap- 
prehension all  the  same,  my  good  Papuan." 

"  I  no  savvy  that- fellow  talk.  Father  belong  him  he 
want  flenty  too  much  big  pig,  too  much  toya  (arm- 
shell),  too  much  tooth  belong  dog?  " 

"  Yes,  Garia,  she's  too  expensive  an  article  alto- 
gether, and  in  any  case  I'm  not  bidding." 

"You  no  got?" 

"  No  got." 

Garia  rolled  a  banana-leaf  cigarette  industriously. 

"  Father  belong  girl,  I  think  more  better  you-me 
kill  him,"  he  observed,  in  a  casual  tone. 

"  Afraid  that  cat  won't  fight,  Garia.  '  New  Guinea 
way '  is  of  no  account  here.  Besides,  the  young  lady 
has  no  regard  for  me  —  girl  he  no  want." 

"  I  think  you  lie,  Taubada,"  repeated  the  monoto- 
nous Garia.  "  All  the  girl  he  want  you.  You  flenty 
good  fellow  man.  You  fight  all  same  bush-pig.  You 
say  '  Damn '  all  same  Cap'n  belong  ship.  All  the 
Papua  girl,  he  like." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see,  this  is  a  white  girl,  Garia." 

"  White  girl  he  no  all  same  ?  " 

I  burst  out  laughing.  Garia  had  at  all  events  driven 
the  dark  mood  away.  As  for  his  question,  it  was  what 
might  be  honestly  termed  a  "  poser." 


WHEN  THE  RED.  GODS  CALL     123 

"  Well,  Garia,"  I  replied  seriously  — "  that  requires 
more  thought  than  I  am  prepared  to  give:  but  a  very 
wise  man  has  said  that 

'  The  Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady 
Are  sisters  under  their  skins.' 

What  do  you  make  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  savvy  what  he  say,"  replied  Garia,  answering  the 
implied  tone  of  patronage.  "  He  say,  all  the  woman, 
he  all  same,  underside  skin  belong  him.  He  talk  good, 
Taubada?" 

"  By  Jove,  Garia,  I  think  he  does!  "  I  said.  "  And 
so  do  you,  my  woolly-headed  child  of  Nature  — '  Out  of 
the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  ' —  Go  off  and  make 
the  boys  turn  in :  we'll  have  an  early  start  to-morrow." 

"  You  eating  that  curry,  Taubada?  "  begged  the  per- 
sistent one. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  curry,  it's  cold,"  I  said.  But  it 
tasted  well,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  VII 

44TT7HEN  I  was  prospecting  for  gold  about  the 
*  *  D'Entrecasteaux,"  proclaimed  Worboise,  in  a 
loud  bumbling  bass,  "  I  used  to  know  a  native  called 
Adilawa." 

Everyone  on  the  veranda  exchanged  looks  of  resig- 
nation, and  prepared  to  drop  off  into  the  state  of  coma 
infallibly  produced  by  Worboise's  reminiscences.  I 
suppose  they  were  interesting  enough  in  their  way,  if 
one  hadn't  had  too  much  of  them,  and  if  they  had  not 
invariably  turned  on  matters  already  so  familiar  to 
most  of  us  as  to  have  lost  all  spice  of  interest  or  ex- 
citement. Strangers  used  to  say  that  Worboise  was 
one  of  the  most  entertaining  characters  they  had  ever 
known.  So  he  was  —  for  a  day.  But  we  had  him 
all  the  time,  and  we  were  wearied  of  him  as  only  one 
wearies  of  people  in  the  narrow  circles  of  the  Never- 
Never  lands,  where  everyone  has  full  opportunity  to 
know  a  great  deal  too  much  about  everyone  else. 

All  Port  Moresby  was  on  the  veranda  that  night, 
the  wide  veranda  of  Government  House,  overlooking 
the  tangle  of  low  uncleared  bush  on  the  hill,  and  the 
mangrove  swamp  below,  and  the  great  moon-silvered 
harbor,  with  Fishermen  Island  lying  low  and  black 
on  the  horizon,  like  a  sleeping  whale.  The  new  Gov- 
ernor, rather  to  the  astonishment  of  the  settlement, 

124 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  125 

had  made  a  point  of  encouraging  the  scant  dozen  of  re- 
spectable whites  to  drop  in  in  the  cool  of  the  evening, 
and  exchange  their  views  on  Papuan  matters  gener- 
ally over  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  smoke.  I  don't  think 
any  of  us  mistook  this  condescension  for  an  example 
of  the  equality  that  usually  prevails  in  small  and  prim- 
itive communities.  We  quite  understood  that  Gov- 
ernor Hammond  was  studying  us  for  his  own  pur- 
poses, and  that  his  attitude  towards  his  loyal  subjects 
of  the  capital  was  very  much  that  of  the  conscientious 
rector's  lady  towards  the  deserving  poor  in  her  "  dis- 
trict." Professions,  like  men,  have  the  defects  of 
their  qualities,  and  the  training  of  the  navy  does  not 
make  for  breadth  in  matters  social. 

It  was  certainly  an  odd  collection  of  humanity  that 
assembled  that  evening  on  the  veranda,  after  the  sun 
had  set  in  a  blaze  of  marigold  and  geranium  behind 
the  swaying  palms,  and  the  transparent  tropic  dark 
had  filled  the  hollow  of  the  hills  with  its  cooling  flood. 
A  lean,  yellow-faced  brace  of  Government  officials  in 
loose  duck  suits  —  a  gold-miner  with  cheeks  boiled  to 
fish-belly  white  in  the  steaming  bush  of  the  Louisiades 
—  a  schooner  captain,  ruddy  and  bulbous-nosed  —  a 
storekeeper  or  two,  tidy,  dull,  and  curious  —  one  or 
two  beche-de-mer  traders  from  the  unknown  West  — 
a  plump  missionary  —  a  French  recruiter  —  Wor- 
boise  himself,  appallingly  fat  in  his  shrunk  khaki  coat, 
reen forced  by  a  blue  singlet  instead  of  a  waistcoat  — 
myself,  in  as  much  of  a  white  shell-jacket  suit  as  the 
cockroaches  and  silver-fish  had  left  me  —  His  Excel- 
lency, and  His  Excellency's  daughter  —  this  was  all 


!I26  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  company,  and  it  left  nobody  out  except  the  hotel- 
keeper,  who  was  his  own  barman  and  billiard-marker, 
and  the  three  sandalwood  traders  who  were  too  busy 
drinking  up  the  price  of  their  last  cargo  to  attend  to 
anything  else.  This  was  Sunday  night,  and  by  some 
odd  convention  an  evening  of  special  leisure  —  to  a 
populace  that  was  certainly  not  overworked  on  any 
day  of  the  week. 

Stephanie,  pouring  out  coffee  at  the  far  end  of  the 
veranda,  looked,  as  Leon  Cruchet,  the  recruiter,  said 
ecstatically,  like  a  white  cloud  come  down  from  heaven 
with  an  angel  in  the  middle  of  it,  in  her  tremendous 
ballooning  gauzy  dress,  which  quite  filled  up  the  bas- 
ket chair  she  was  sitting  in,  and  boiled  frothily  over 
the  sides.  She  wore  the  smallest  possible  waist  (the 
schooner  captain,  who  was  married,  said  it  was  a  bit 
too  good  to  be  true,  in  his  opinion,  but  in  our  opinion, 
that  was  only  because  Stephanie  didn't  like  him,  and 
always  poured  out  his  coffee  last).  When  she  got  up 
to  rustle  back  through  the  dining-room  to  her  bedroom, 
as  she  generally  did  very  early  in  the  evening,  you 
could  hear  her  monstrously  high  heels  go  click-click 
on  the  boards,  like  the  sound  of  a  wood-pecker  on  a 
tree.  We  thought  it  all  charming.  We  would  have 
thought  it  charming  if  she  had  worn  a  tower  on  her 
head,  like  the  ladies  of  the  eighteenth  century,  or 
chained  her  feet  to  her  knees,  like  the  fashionable  folk 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  She  represented  the  whole  world 
of  white  women  to  those  few  solitary  men  of  Port 
Moresby,  who  had  all  of  them  wives  or  sweethearts  or 
sisters  with  white  skins  and  straight  hair,  somewhere  a 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  127 

long  way  away,  and  who,  all  of  them,  missed  those 
other  halves  very  much  more  than  they  would  have 
thought  possible,  while  they  had  them. 

As  for  me  ...  But  I  was  telling  about  Wor- 
boise  and  his  yarn. 

"...  a  native  called  Adilawa,  a  better  fellow 
you  couldn't  wish  to  see;  he  was  six  foot  two  in  his 
bare  feet  if  you  counted  his  hair;  he  was  hereditary 
head-boiler  to  his  tribe.  .  .  ." 

"  Hereditary  what  ?  "  gasped  Stephanie :  but  Wor- 
boise  bumbled  on,  stopless  and  resistless  — 

".  .  .  and  every  one  he  boiled  they'd  give  him 
its  tortoise  shell  earrings  now  Adilawa  he'd  a  reel  lik- 
ing for  me  and  good-natured  wasn't  the  word  any- 
thing he  could  do  he  would  was  it  yams  or  boys  to 
carry  for  us  or  a  bit  of  dog's  meat,  not  bad  either 
when  your  cartridges  are  out  and  they  think  the  world 
of  it  themselves  next  to  a  roast  of  the  forearm 
well  Governor  Hartley  he  had  me  arrested  for  a  bit 
of  a  spree  at  Dinner  Island  the  man  being  taken  down 
to  Sydney  by  a  mission  boat  to  have  his  ribs  fixed  up 
and  as  it  wasn't  convenient  to  jail  a  white  man  five 
pounds  says  he  and  you  may  think  yourself  lucky  all 
the  same  as  fifty  to  me  being  dead  broke  just  then 
now  Adilawa  he  walks  into  court  which  was  the  deck 
of  the  Government  schooner  and  says  he'll  pay  for 
his  white  man  and  it  was  nearer  ten  pounds  of  tor- 
toise shell  than  five  that  he  had  in  his  string  bag  and 
Burns'  Philp's  trader  he  bought  it  cheap  and  I  never 
forgot  it  on  Adilawa  though  says  he  like  a  reel  gen- 
tleman don't  you  worry  for  the  boys  they'll  buy  it  all 


128  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

up  as  like  as  not  most  of  it'll  come  back  to  me  in  the 
way  of  business  later  on  they're  reel  nice  fellows  if 
you  can  get  the  right  way  of  them  another  time. 

5> 

"Worboise!  Have  a  whisky?"  .  .  .  His 
Excellency  had  been  long  enough  in  Port  Moresby  by 
now  to  know  how  best  the  tide  of  pioneer  eloquence 
might  be  stemmed. 

"  I  thank  Your  Excellency,"  said  Worboise  with 
sudden  formality,  getting  up  to  take  the  glass,  and 
plainly  displaying  one  orange  sock  and  one  red,  droop- 
ing mournfully  over  the  string  lacing  of  his  boots. 

Stephanie,  prettily  posed  in  the  midst  of  her  white 
cloud,  fixed  two  blue  eyes  upon  him,  and  asked  — 

"And  Adilawa  —  is  he  dead?"  evidently  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  polite. 

Worboise  lifted  his  flat  fishlike  eyes  over  the  rim 
of  his  glass,  set  it  down,  still  staring  immovably  at 
Stephanie,  and  —  whistled. 

A  sound  like  a  dog  awaking  was  heard  from  under 
the  house,'  and  immediately  after,  a  large  brown  man 
bounded  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda.  He  had  an  in- 
credibly tall  mop  of  hair,  circled  by  a  halo  of  casso- 
wary feathers:  a  pencil  of  orange  shell  was  thrust 
through  his  nose:  he  had  a  bear's  tusk  slung  locket- 
wise  on  his  chest,  and  wore  a  hornbill  beak  set  in  a 
fiber  armlet.  The  rest  of  his  costume  consisted  of  a 
"  jury-rigged "  kilt  of  some  checked  cotton  stuff, 
which  I  conjectured,  by  Stephanie's  instantly  sup- 
pressed look  of  horror,  to  be  one  of  the  Government 
House  kitchen  dusters. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  129 

Worboise  pointed  a  dark-nailed  thumb  at  the  ap- 
parition. 

"  That's  him,  and  the  best  cook-boy  in  the  Terri- 
tory," he  said  with  feeling. 

"  Naturally,"  chuckled  the  Governor,  who  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  himself. 

Stephanie's  vocabulary  appeared  to  fail  her  alto* 
gether  for  a  minute,  and  then  — 

"  Is  he  a  Christian  ?  "  she  asked  a  little  primly. 

"  Christian!     Didn't  I  say  he  could  COOK?  " 

".  .  .  Can  she  cook  collops?"  quoted  the 
Governor  reminiscently.  "  Stephanie,  my  dear,  you've 
had  a  long  day  —  don't  you  think  you  must  be  tired  ?  " 

I  have  described  this  evening,  not  because  it  was 
remarkable  in  any  way,  but  because  it  was  a  fair  sam- " 
pie  of  a  good  many  others.  I  think  I  had  been  to 
Government  House  some  four  or  five  times  about 
then.  His  Excellency  had  been  kind  enough  to  give 
me  a  general  invitation,  and  to  repeat  it,  subsequently. 
It  seemed  that  he  looked  on  me  as  useful  source  of  in- 
formation about  the  country,  and  wanted  to  draw  me 
out  on  the  subject  of  my  various  experiences.  So  far, 
I  don't  think  he  had  got  very  much.  I  understood 
His  Excellency's  methods  of  making  people  talk  by 
this  time,  and  did  not  like  them  greatly.  It  displeased 
me  to  see  my  "  mates  r'  of  the  Port,  one  after  another, 
turning  their  minds  inside  out  for  the  diversion,  infor- 
mation, or  what  not,  of  Captain  Hammond,  uncon- 
sciously led  on  by  the  "  sounding  brass  and  tinkling 
cymbal  "  of  his  easy  chatter,  and  never  noticing  the 


i3o  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL) 

stony  gray  eye  that  kept  such  sharp  and  unflinching 
watch,  above  the  talkative  mouth.  When  he  had 
enough  of  any  man,  he  could  cut  him  short  with  scant 
ceremony,  and  turn  the  conversation  to  something 
else.  I  think  I  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  circum- 
venting the  queries  which  he  put  to  me  about  the  tribes 
of  the  interior,  the  lie  of  mountains  and  rivers,  and 
so  forth;  but  the  truth  was  that  I  did  not  like  him. 
The  old  grudge  of  the  merchant  sailor  against  the 
Royal  Navy  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it: 
Captain  Hammond's  evident  conviction  that  he  had  a 
right  to  command  any  information,  or  indeed  anything 
else,  that  I  might  possess,  had  rather  more :  but  strong- 
est of  all,  in  the  elements  of  my  growing  dislike  for 
our  Governor,  was  the  knowledge  that  he  considered 
me,  socially,  as  far  removed  from  equality  with  him- 
self and  Stephanie,  as  his  own  little  Cockney  valet.  I 
had  almost  forgotten  that  such  things  as  class  distinc- 
tions existed,  living  as  I  had  done,  for  the  most  part 
among  those  who  were  accustomed  to  rank  men  by 
nothing  smaller  than  character.  But  now  that  the 
lines  of  social  division  were  thus  set  up  as  a  fence  in 
front  of  me,  I  could  not  help  remembering  that  any 
advantages  attaching  to  the  possession  of  birth  and 
education  were  mine  as  much  as  Captain  Hammond's : 
and  certain  small  slights  to  which  I  was  subject  about 
this  time  began  to  rankle. 

It  was  all  exceedingly  foolish,  of  course.  Why 
should  I,  who  years  and  years  ago  had  thrown  up  my 
hand  in  that  idiotic  game  called  Society,  and  resigned 
all  claim  to  its  pasteboard  prizes,  grizzle  because  Caro- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  131 

Ian,  the  R.  M.,  was  constantly  dining  at  Government 
House,  whereas  I  had  not  had,  and  was  not  likely  to 
have,  a  chance  to  break  bread  under  its  roof?  Why 
should  I  smart  every  time  I  met  Captain  Hammond 
in  the  township,  and  was  greeted  with  a  curt  nod  — 
the  R.  M.  being  sure  to  receive  a  smile,  a  lift  of  the 
hat,  and  probably  a  word  or  two  as  well?  Why,  in 
the  name  of  common  sense,  should  I  feel  injured  be- 
cause Carolan  got  his  clothes  from  Bond  Street,  and 
spoke  with  the  exquisite  finish  of  accent  that  marks  the 
man  who  has  associated  with  none  but  the  cultured 
classes?  Why  should  I  bristle  like  a  hedgehog  when 
the  young  Resident  Magistrate,  evidently  wanting  to 
make  up  for  his  superior's  scant  cordiality,  drew  his 
chair  up  to  mine  of  an  evening,  and  began  to  talk  to 
me  about  trade-winds,  and  copra,  and  other  subjects 
carefully  and  kindly  selected  to  suit  my  presumably 
limited  type  of  mind?  Well  —  perhaps  I  was  begin- 
ning to  guess  why.  But  I  don't  know  that  that  made 
matters  any  better. 

And  what  about  the  Governor's  daughter? 

The  visions  that  had  broken  my  sleep,  away  in  the 
Owen  Stanley  Range,  troubled  me  not  at  all,  under  the 
tin  roof  of  Worboise's  modest  shanty.  I  ate  my  meals 
as  usual,  and  Garia,  I  dare  say,  found  me  an  easy  mas- 
ter. I  had  business  in  Port  Moresby  just  then  — 
only  the  disposal  of  my  bird  skins,  but  it  took  some 
time.  Afterwards  —  by-and-by,  I  did  not  exactly 
specify  when  —  I  meant  to  make  a  second  trip  into  the 
interior,  and  get  all  that  I  could  get  of  the  gold  I  had 
found,  before  the  news  of  the  discovery  leaked  out,  as 


132 

it  was  sure  to  do,  sometime.  There  was  no  risk  of 
that  at  present,  however  —  the  district  was  totally  un- 
known to  whites,  and  the  idea  of  prospecting  in  that 
direction  had  never  so  much  as  occurred  to  anyone. 

In  the  meantime  — 

Well,  in  the  meantime,  I  had  spent  several  evenings 
at  Government  House,  with  the  rest  of  the  proletariat, 
seen  Stephanie  pouring  out  coffee,  and  told  her  that 
I  took  a  little  sugar,  and  no  milk.  Also,  I  had  been 
introduced  to  her,  with  a  batch  of  half-a-dozen  others, 
and  received  the  seventh  part  of  a  pretty  little  bow  and 
smile.  But  not  a  word  had  I  spoken  to  her,  in  the 
way  of  ordinary  conversation.  In  spite  of  His  Excel- 
lency's condescension,  nothing  could  be  clearer  than  the 
fact  that  his  daughter,  socially  speaking,  was  not 
for  us. 

It  always  happened  that  the  chairs  were  arranged  in 
such  a  way  that  no  one  could  sit  near  Stephanie,  un- 
less he  had  the  nerve  (which  nobody  had)  to  pick  up 
his  own  chair,  and  carry  it  right  past  the  Governor, 
down  half  the  length  of  the  veranda.  Carolan,  it  is 
true,  often  occupied  that  favored  place,  but  he  was 
usually  planted  there  when  we  arrived,  having  already 
dined  at  the  house.  Besides,  Carolan  was  inside  the 
fence,  outside  of  which  we  others  strained  and  stared. 
He  used  to  take  a  pleasure,  I  thought,  in  showing  off 
his  intimacy :  he  talked  in  low  tones,  and  tried  to  make 
Stephanie  laugh  at  private  jokes  —  a  thing  she  was 
much  too  well-mannered  to  do  —  and  he  used  to  hand 
her  cups  and  jugs  as  often  as  he  could,  taking  such 
care  of  the  china  that  he  never  let  it  go  until  his  long 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  133 

brown  fingers  had  safely  met  her  little  white  ones,  on 
handle  or  edge.  ...  I  used  to  wish,  sometimes, 
that  I  had  the  chance  of  showing  Carolan  a  trick  of 
my  own  about  squeezing  hands:  one  that  nobody  has 
ever  wanted  to  be  shown  twice.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  curious  thing,  that  in  spite  of  all  Carolan's 
attentions,  and  in  spite  of  the  demands  made  on  her 
by  the  claims  of  hospitality,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  never  seemed  to  look  at  me,  Stephanie  cer- 
tainly heard  everything  I  said  to  anybody  on  the  ve- 
randa. How  did  I  know?  I  can't  say.  But  I  did 
know.  Her  eyelashes,  or  her  head,  or  something  in 
the  way  she  smiled,  told  me  every  now  and  then  —  I 
can't  explain  how.  I'm  afraid  I  talked  at  her,  when 
I  did  talk,  which  was  not  very  often.  It  was  fas- 
cinating beyond  anything  that  I  can  tell,  to  see  how 
that  swallow-swift  mind  of  hers  followed  me  from 
point  to  point  —  how  quickly  and  certainly  she  caught 
any  allusion  or  idea  that  passed  over  the  heads  of  the 
others  —  how,  all  unconsciously,  she  signified  assent 
with  the  fleeting  shadow  of  a  smile,  or  showed  her 
delicate  disapproval  by  the  compression  of  that  flower- 
petal  lip.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  In  love  with  her?  No,  I  was  not.  Inter- 
ested, fascinated  even,  if  you  like,  but  as  to  love. 
.  .  .  Why,  what  an  airy  fleeting  spirit  of  flower 
and  fire  it  was!  Who  could  picture  such  a  creature 
as  a  wife,  a  mother?  I  was  horribly  afraid  of  her 
marrying  Carolan,  and  yet  I  didn't  think  she  would. 
Her  very  flirtation  with  him  —  for  she  did  flirt,  openly 
and  unashamed  —  was  more  like  a  child  playing  at 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  grown-ups  "  than  a  woman  venturing  on  that  most 
perilous  of  all  games  of  chance,  where  hearts  are  laid 
for  stakes  upon  the  table.  Carolan's  stakes  might  be 
on  the  table,  indeed,  but  if  she  were  not  playing  with 
counters,  I  was  much  in  error. 

Had  she  anything  but  counters  to  play  with  ?  That 
was  assuredly  none  of  my  business:  so  it  interested 
me.  I  tried  to  read  her  face  more  than  once  —  I  am 
one  of  those  who  believe  that  a  woman's  face,  and 
indeed  all  of  her,  expresses  her  heart  in  characters 
clear  enough  to  tell  many  a  secret,  if  one  can  but  read 
them.  But  the  handwriting  of  physique  was  hard  to 
spell,  in  Stephanie's  case.  She  had  not  the  slit  small 
mouth,  the  thin  eyelid,  the  hard  hand,  of  the  woman 
too  cold  for  love:  nor  was  she,  in  spite  of  her  delicate 
make,  of  the  swan-throated,  dove-eyed,  reed- voiced 
type  that  can  love  nought  lower  than  heaven.  No, 
after  all,  aerial  creature  though  she  was,  there  was 
something  about  Stephanie  a  little  warmer,  a  little 
nearer,  than  angels  and  fairies.  ...  I  think  that 
Herrick  must  have  known  her  great-great-great-great- 
grandmother —  an  ancestress  very  like  her  charming 
descendant-to-be  —  when  he  wrote  that  immortal  de- 
scription of  a  dainty  maiden  — 

"  Have  you  seen  but  a  white  lily  blow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  seen  the  fall  of  the  snow, 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver, 
Or  stroked  the  swansdown  over, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  135 

Or  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 

O  so  white,  O  so  soft,  O  so  sweet  is  she !  " 

I  don't  seem  to  be  getting  on  with  my  story.  But 
it  is  amazing  how  long  that  comparatively  short  period 
of  evening  visits  seems  to  have  lasted,  before  the  event 
occurred  that  put  a  new  face  on  things  in  general.  For 
years  and  years,  I  seemed  to  have  been  tramping  out 
from  Port  Moresby  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  carrying 
a  hurricane  lantern,  when  there  was  no  moon,  because 
of  the  snakes  and  crocodiles,  in  the  big  black  man- 
grove swamp  —  making  quick  time  across  the  flat  on 
the  other  side,  where  the  mosquitoes  came  out  of  the 
grass,  and  tore  you  like  wolves  —  breasting  the  hill 
that  led  to  Government  House,  and  seeing,  at  last,  the 
orange  glow  of  the  lights,  and  the  scattered  forms  in 
the  chairs,  and  the  cloud  of  white  drapery  at  the  cof- 
fee-table, and  the  half-naked  boys  handing  cups,  just 
as  usual  —  feeling  myself,  just  as  usual,  amazingly 
out  of  breath  when  I  reached  the  steps  —  I,  who  could 
beat  my  own  mountain  boys  on  a  steep  rise  in  the 
eleven  thousand  foot  ranges,  where  the  air  grows  thin, 
and  knees  begin  to  tremble,  and  lungs  seem  made  of 
lead  —  I  seemed,  as  I  say,  to  have  been  doing  all  this 
for  years,  and  yet  it  was  scarce  six  weeks  since  I  had 
come  back  to  port,  and  this  was,  after  all,  but  the  fifth 
time  I  had  called,  when  Carolan,  of  all  people  on 
earth,  threw  the  match  into  the  tow  at  last. 

It  came  about  like  this.  I  was  sitting  half  in  the 
shadow  of  a  big  pot  of  palms,  listening,  more  or  less, 
to  His  Excellency  holding  forth  with  babbling  fluency 


136  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

upon  the  merits  of  different  kinds  of  food  for  fowls. 
Worboise  was  sleeping,  all  spilled  out  over  his  ham- 
mock chair :  luckily,  he  did  not  snore.  Leon  Cruchet, 
who  was  loyal  down  to  the  tips  of  his  cockroach-eaten 
shoes,  was  trying,  in  a  shocked  and  surreptitious  man- 
ner, to  wake  him  up.  Two  Samarai  traders  were 
smoking  stick  tobacco  (the  Governor  never  shared 
his  cigars),  and  staring  out  to  sea.  Carolan,  listening 
with  half-an-ear,  devoted  the  rest  to  Stephanie,  whom 
he  was  supplying  with  crystallized  sugar  flowers  out  of 
a  gilt  French  box  —  evidently  a  present. 

"  Try  a  violet,"  he  said.  ..."  No,  sir,  I  would 
certainly  not  leave  the  meat  bones  in  the  food.  I  know 
it's  done,  but  .  .  .  The  roses  are  almost  the  best, 
Miss  Hammond.  You  haven't  tried  the  orange-blos- 
som yet,  have  you  —  it's  the  very  best.  Let  me  pick 
you  out  one,"  with  a  look  that  was  meant  to  say  a 
great  deal. 

"  I  think,"  said  Stephanie  coolly,  "  it's  rather  two 
sweet  to  eat." 

"  Don't  eat  it,  then  —  take  a  piece  —  to  dream  on  — 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  What  will  it  make  me  dream  of?  "  demanded  the 
girl,  with  a  face  of  such  childlike  candor  that  one  could 
see  she  meant  mischief.  "  There  are  things  "•  -  look- 
ing rather  too  pointedly  at  her  neighbor,  "  that  would 
wake  one  up  crying  for  Nurse  and  the  candle !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  things,  I  mean  people,"  replied  Caro- 
lan, who  was  nothing  if  not  literal.  "  Don't  you  ever 
dream  of  —  people  ?  " 

For  a  moment  I  felt  enraged  with  Carolan's  atti- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  137 

tude,  even  more  than  his  words.  He  seemed  to  have 
the  fine  contempt  for  my  presence  and  the  presence  of 
the  traders,  that  a  certain  section  of  society  has  for 
its  servants,  when  discussing  affairs  that  ought  to  be 
private.  We  were  evidently  "  things,"  rather  than 
people,  to  him.  But  I  had  hardly  time  to  feel 
the  smart,  for,  in  answer  to  his  banal  question, 
Stephanie  .  .  . 

I  can  hardly  write  it  even  now  without  emotion  — 
it  meant  so  much  to  me  —  has  meant  and  will  mean 
so  much,  through  all  my  journey  this  side  of  the 
grave.  Diana's  moon-ray,  falling  on  Endymion  in  the 
grove,  can  scarce  have  filled  the  common  herdsman's 
heart  with  such  a  flood  of  wonder  and  delight  as  that 
which  broke  overwhelmingly  on  me  in  that  moment  — 
on  me,  the  landless,  moneyless,  characterless,  godless 
wanderer  —  when  Stephanie  looked  at  me  and  blushed. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  I  am  very  sure  that 
no  one  else  saw  it.  Now,  if  anyone  else  had  seen  it, 
could  he  have  guessed  what  a  special  significance  it 
bore  .  .  . 

No  one  but  myself  knew  of  those  weeks  in  the  Owen 
Stanley  Range  when  Stephanie's  wandering  wraith  had 
kept  me  from  sleeping,  night  after  night,  and  by  its 
strange  vividness  and  aliveness  had  set  me  wondering, 
often  enough,  if  there  were  indeed  "more  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  "  than  had  hitherto  been  dreamed  of 
in  my  philosophy.  .  .  . 

Were  there?  Was  this  a  proof?  In  the  name  of 
all  that  was  wonderful  and  delightful  and  impossible, 
did  she  know? 


138  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

From  my  shadowed  corner  under  the  palm,  I  saw 
the  quick  blush  fade  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  and 
give  way  to  waxen  white  —  the  flying,  involuntary 
glance  bury  itself  in  the  ground.  With  consummate 
grace,  she  took  up  the  broken  thread  of  her  conversa- 
tion, and  wound  it  on  so  easily  and  smoothly,  that  no 
one,  save  myself,  could  have  noted  the  gap.  She 
smiled,  she  flirted,  she  played  with  her  fan.  But  all 
the  time  the  waxen  paleness  remained,  and  the  little 
fingers,  when  they  closed  on  the  fan-sticks,  shut  so 
tight  that  the  knuckles  shone  out  like  ivory. 

She  was  afraid.  She  was  afraid  of  me.  She  was 
afraid,  in  all  the  snowy  little  soul  of  her,  that  I  should 
guess  .  .  . 

What? 

The  answer  to  that  broke  like  a  fanfare  of  golden 
trumpets  into  my  mind.  The  whole  world  was  sing- 
ing, beating,  shouting  out  the  truth.  The  dim  veranda 
seemed  ablaze  with  light  —  with  the  light  that  never 
was  on  sea  or  land :  the  light  that  shines  but  once  on 
any  life,  and  never  at  all  on  some.  And  up  to  meet 
that  never-hoped-for  splendor  sprang  the  hidden  fire 
that  had  burned  unknown  so  long,  under  dead  wet 
leaves  of  utter  hopelessness :  under  white  cold  ashes  of 
forgotten  sins:  under  beating  rains  of  loneliness  and 
pain  —  alive  all  the  time,  and  burning  upward  to  the 
day.  I  loved  Stephanie. 

Yes,  you  had  reason  to  be  afraid,  little  white  soul 
trembling  in  the  dawn  of  an  unknown  light.  I  knew 
the  stainless  secret  that  you  would  have  given  your 
life  to  hide :  Father  and  friends  and  recognized  lover 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  139 

might  do  what  they  would  —  the  Cerberus  that  guards 
the  gateway  between  the  under  and  the  upper  worlds 
of  society  might  howl  his  worst  —  common  sense  and 
common  prudence,  and  providence  for  the  future,  and 
settlements  and  dowries  and  all  the  wretched  crew  of 
"  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth," 
might  shriek  like  a  pack  of  wolves  at  our  heels —  they 
were  all  of  no  more  account  than  a  swarm  of  buzzing 
flies:  and  like  a  swarm  of  flies  they  would  be  swept 
aside,  when  they  crossed  the  path  of  the  strongest 
thing  in  all  the  world  —  the  thing  that  makes  the  world 
itself  go  round  —  love.  .  .  . 

And  all  the  time,  His  Excellency's  excellent  voice 
kept  burbling  on  —  it  had  only  got  one  or  two  sen- 
tences further  on  while  the  stars  were  changing  in 
their  courses,  and  the  world  turning  upside  down,  for 
Stephanie  and  for  me.  You  might  put  as  much  green- 
stuff as  you  could  get  into  the  food-boiler,  I  was  told : 
it  would  do  the  birds  no  harm :  and  you  were  safe  — 
quite  safe  —  with  potatoes  at  any  time.  A  friend  of 
his  had  got  an  excellent  recipe  for  artificial  food  in 
the  Poultry  Record,  and  reported  astonishing  results 
in  eggs:  but  he  (the  Governor)  considered  the  Poul- 
try Record  a  most  unreliable  rag,  and  he  would  never 
be  astonished  to  hear  of  heavy  losses  in  Lord  Van- 
couver's farms  —  had  he  mentioned  that  his  friend 
was  that  well-known  agricultural  Marquis  ? 

"  Quite  seldom,"  I  said  gravely.  Leon  Cruchet 
looked  at  me  with  round  eyes  of  horror,  but  the  Gov- 
ernor was  absorbed  in  his  subject,  and  flowed  serenely 
on.  Then  a  brilliant  idea  occurred  to  me:  my  mind 


140  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

was  racing  like  a  screw  out  of  water,  and  I  seemed  to 
be  able  to  think  at  thrice  the  usual  pace  — 

"  Do  you  know  Fur  and  Feather,  your  Excel- 
lency? "  I  asked. 

"  No  —  is  it  a  good  paper?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  least  like  it/'  I  declared, 
solemnly.  This  was  quite  true,  since  no  such  paper 
ever  existed. 

"  Where  is  it  published  ?  "  asked  the  Governor  with 
interest. 

This  was  my  moment.  I  reached  for  a  pencil  and 
memorandum  pad  that  I  had  noted  on  the  table,  wrote 
on  a  blank  leaf — "Messrs.  Lloyd  Jones,  Ltd.,  49 
Bouverie  Street,  Fleet  Street,  E.  C." — a  sufficiently 
convincing  address  for  a  pure  impromptu  of  the  min- 
ute —  and  handed  the  leaf  to  Captain  Hammond.  In 
the  moment  that  he  was  occupied  reading  it,  I  whipped 
out  another  leaf  and  penciled  a  single  line  on  it. 

This  was  what  I  wrote  —  my  sailor's  memory  for 
poetry,  and  the  sight  of  a  gayly  bound  volume  on  the 
center  table,  together  prompting  me  — 

"  Matthew  Arnold :     Sonnets — 'Longing'  1-6." 

Then  I  pinched  the  paper  into  a  tiny  wad,  and  hid 
it  in  my  hand. 

The  Governor  looked  up  from  the  slip  I  had  given 
him. 

"  Thanks  —  it  might  be  useful.  I'll  send  for  a  sam- 
ple copy  if  I  remember,"  he  said.  And  —  the  subject 
of  the  poultry-yard  being  for  once  exhausted  —  he 
turned  to  Leon  Cruchet,  who  was  all  of  a  grin  at  His 
Excellency's  affability,  and  began  drawing  him  about 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  141 

certain  alleged  cases  of  blackbirding  reported  from  the 
East  Cape  country. 

Now  was  my  time.  His  Excellency  had  settled 
down  to  business,  and  was  trying,  in  quite  a  genial 
manner;  to  make  the  flattered  Cruchet  Incriminate  his 
partner.  For  the  moment,  he  was  fully  occupied ;  and 
Fortune  favors  the  brave  in  love  as  in  war.  This  was 
assuredly  love  —  I  had  known  it  for  quite  five  min- 
utes. If  utter  hopelessness  had  made  me  as  diffident 
as  a  girl  hitherto,  there  was  nothing  of  the  girl  about 
me  now,  and  I  did  not  intend  it  to  be  very  long  be- 
fore Stephanie  should  know  as  much.  .  .  .  The 
passion-flower  blooms  swiftly,  in  the  countries  of  the 
sun,  and  your  sea-gypsy  with  the  salt  drop  in  his  blood 
is  the  last  of  all  men  to  let  that  blossom  of  blossoms 
linger  on  the  stem.  .  .  . 

I  rose  to  say  good-night,  got  a  curt  nod  from  the 
Governor  (he  seemed  to  be  just  growing  hot  on  the 
scent  of  a  kidnaped  crow),  and  received  the  usual 
condescending  smile  and  shake-hands  from  Carolan, 
who  came  down  the  veranda  to  meet  me.  It  had  not 
happened  hitherto  that  Stephanie  had  shaken  hands 
with  the  guests,  at  their  departure.  Things  always 
fell  out  —  not  by  accident,  I  am  sure  —  so  that  she 
was  right  at  the  other  end  of  the  veranda  about  leave- 
taking  time,  and  no  one  seemed  to  have  courage  to 
cross  the  invisible  line  of  demarcation,  and  go  right  up 
to  her.  I  crossed  it  to-night,  however,  once  and  for 
always.  I  walked  down  the  full  length  of  those  echo- 
ing boards  —  and  really,  it  needed  all  the  courage  I 
had :  —  went  up  to  the  little  coffee-table,  and  shook 


142  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

hands  as  I  said  "  Good-night,"  just  as  if  I  had  done 
so  every  time  I  had  taken  my  leave.  And  in  the 
course  of  the  shake-hands,  a  minute  wad  of  paper 
passed  from  my  fingers  to  Stephanie's. 

She  never  turned  a  hair.  I  had  hoped  she  would 
not,  and  gambled  on  the  chance.  A  girl  as  pretty  as 
Stephanie,  I  guessed,  is  not  making  her  first  acquaint- 
ance with  smuggled  notes  at  one-and-twenty  —  her 
age,  as  I  had  lately  learned  it.  She  had  perfect  com- 
mand of  herself  now,  and  did  not  flutter  an  eyelid,  or 
change  color  a  shade,  as  she  smiled  her  little  formal 
good-night.  Worboise  and  the  Captain  and  Cruchet 
—  the  latter  much  to  His  Excellency's  disgust,  I  have 
no  doubt  —  all  got  up  at  once  to  go,  when  I  did,  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  following  their  leader,  and  still  more 
like  sheep,  they  followed  me  up  to  something  that  they 
never  would  have  faced  alone  —  the  Governor's  daugh- 
ter, no  less. 

I  had  not  calculated  on  that  turn  of  affairs,  nor  on 
all  the  three  shaking  hands  with  Stephanie,  as  I  had 
done  —  evidently  thinking  that  we  had  all  been  guilty 
of  an  unpardonable  solecism  in  neglecting  the  cere- 
mony hitherto.  I  must  own  that  my  blood  almost  ran 
cold  for  a  minute.  But  I  need  not  have  feared  for 
Stephanie.  Without  any  hurry  or  confusion,  her  slim 
right  hand  with  its  sparkling  rings  glided  across  the 
left  hand,  almost  imperceptibly,  and  then  stretched 
itself  out  —  empty. 

The  guests  shook  hands  solemnly,  and  departed. 
Captain  Hammond  looked  on  with  a  wooden  face : 
you  could  not  tell  what  he  thought.  The  last  I  saw 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  143 

of  Stephanie,  as  I  went  down  the  hill  into  the  darkness, 
was  a  vision  of  a  still  white  figure  on  the  steps,  haloed 
by  the  glow  of  the  lamp  from  the  house.  ...  It 
made  me  think  of  saints  I  had  seen  in  lighted  shrines 
along  the  midnight  way,  when  I  was  tramping  through 
golden  Andalusia,  long  and  long  ago.  .  .  .  The 
poets  were  all  abroad  in  my  brain  that  evening.  .  .  , 

"  So  high,  so  far,  and  so  apart "...  I 
thought,  looking  back  at  my  Madonna  in  her  shrine. 

.  .  And  yet,  dear  saint,  I  knew  well  that  it  would 
not  be  very  long  before  you  were  shut  into  your  little 
moonlit  room  with  Matthew  Arnold  for  company, 
breathlessly  turning  over  the  leaves  till  you  came  upon 
the  sonnet,  and  then  catching  your  breath  with  indig- 
nation, and  amazement,  and  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  hoped 
with  something  else  as  well  —  when  you  came  upon 
the  message  that  I  had  been  audacious  enough  to  send 
you  — 

"  Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again, 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

"  Come,  as  thou  cam'st  a  thousand  times, 
A  messenger  from  radiant  climes     .     .     ." 

But  for  the  next  two  lines  I  had  no  use  — 

"  And  smile  on  thy  new  world,  and  be 
As  kind  to  all  the  rest  as  me." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

'  I  VHE  state  of  mind  I  went  home  in  that  night  need 
not  be  described  to  anyone  who,  like  myself,  has 
seen  the  moon  drop  out  of  heaven  into  his  hands  be- 
cause he  cried  for  it  —  and  it  certainly  could  not  be 
described  to  anyone  who  has  not.  I  do  not  say  that 
I  had  had  no  hope  at  all  of  ever  finding  favor  in  my 
lady's  eyes,  but  at  best,  it  was  a  mere  "If  only!" 
sighed  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart  in  lonely  hours, 
and  generally  coupled  to  the  pleasing  fiction  which  I 
had  upheld  so  long  —  that  I  wasn't  in  love  with  her, 
really. 

You  see,  there  are  so  many  "  if-onlys  "  in  life,  little 
hard  buds  that  do  not  look  as  if  they  were  ever  meant 
to  blow,  and  never  do  blow,  generally  speaking.  "If 
only  " —  one  were  a  millionaire,  or  a  President,  in- 
stead of  a  bank  clerk.  .  .  .  "If  only  "  one  could 
live  a  hundred  years.  .  .  .  "If  only  "  the  dead 
could  come  back  to  us  from  beneath  the  grass-grown 
sod,  on  which  the  rains  of  many  years  have  beaten 
down.  .  .  .  "If  only  "  the  stars  would  stand  still 
in  their  courses  for  us,  and  the  sun  pause  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  world  swing  round  from  its  orbit,  to 
bring  us  our  heart's  desire.  .  .  . 

"  If  only  " — the  very  words  are  a  sigh  of  hopeless- 
ness. And  yet,  "If  only  "  does  come  true  —  at  times. 

144 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  145 

Paupers  do  wake  up  to  find  themselves  richer  than 
princes.  Plowmen  do  rise  to  sit  on  thrones.  The 
sickly  lad  outlives  his  century.  Those  counted  dead 
come  back  to  life  and  love.  The  stars  drop  down  from 
heaven  into  our  lap  for  playthings  —  sometimes. 

I  had  not  touched  intoxicants  that  day,  and  I  drank 
little  at  any  time,  yet  I  was  drunk  that  night,  if  ever 
a  man  in  this  world  was  drunk  —  with  sheer  delight. 

It  seems  absurd,  on  the  face  of  it,  that  I  should  have 
been  so  certain  this  peerless  creature  was  beginning  to 
care  for  me,  on  evidence  so  slight,  or  that  I  should 
not  have  stopped  to  consider  what  it  could  mean  or 
where  it  could  all  lead  to,  if  she  did.  But  "  Credo 
quia  impossibile  "  was  my  creed  that  night,  and  I  held 
to  it  triumphantly.  As  to  consequences  —  I  didn't 
think,  or  argue,  or  plan :  I  just  meant  to  marry  her  — • 
that  was  all. 

I  don't  know  to  this  day  what  Worboise  talked 
about  all  the  way  back,  but  as  I  dare  say  he  did  not 
know  himself,  that  matters  little.  We  turned  in 
shortly  after  getting  back  to  the  little  tin  shanty  on 
the  beach.  I  need  scarcely  say  I  did  not  close  an  eye 
all  night. 

Naturally  enough,  the  chief  desire  in  my  mind  next 
day  was,  somehow  or  other,  to  maneuver  an  interview 
with  Stephanie :  although  how  it  was  to  be  done,  I  did 
not  see  for  the  moment.  She  had  given  up  riding  by 
herself,  owing  no  doubt  to  a  recent  report  of  tribal 
disturbances  in  the  Astrolabe,  and  now-a-days,  the 
chestnut  mare,  Daisy,  never  cantered  along  the  hill 


146  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

track,  or  over  the  flat,  without  His  Excellency's  big 
bay,  or  Carolan's  smart  little  pony  close  at  hand. 
She  did  not  go  out  walking,  as  far  as  I  knew:  and  of 
course,  private  conversation  on  the  Government  House 
veranda  was  an  impossibility. 

I  can't  say  I  felt  quite  so  confident  or  as  well 
pleased  this  morning.  The  inevitable  reaction  was 
getting  in  its  work,  and  I  began  to  wonder  was  it  just 
possible  that  I  had  been  making  the  most  colossal  fool 
on  record  of  myself.  After  all,  what  justification  had 
I  for  behavior  that,  in  the  uncompromising  glare  of 
the  midday  sun,  seemed  next  to  unpardonable? 

Too  restless  to  stay  in  the  house,  or  endure  Wor- 
boise's  endless  talking,  I  wandered  out  in  the  full  heat 
of  the  day,  and  tramped  I  do  not  know  how  many 
miles  on  the  native  track  that  leads  past  the  Mission 
grounds,  towards  the  Laleki  River.  There  had  been 
drought  for  a  good  many  weeks,  and  the  country  was 
baked  to  a  cinder.  Through  the  shadeless  gray-green 
eucalyptus,  through  the  melancholy  mop-heads  of  the 
pandanus,  through  the  dust  vanes  of  the  palms,  the 
sun  struck  straight  and  clear  upon  the  crumbling  earth, 
from  a  sky  as  hard  and  blue  as  a  bit  of  china.  The 
flat  sapphire-colored  sea,  spread  out  between  its  cir- 
cling headlands,  looked  as  if  you  might  turn  the  blade 
of  an  ax  on  its  surface.  You  could  feel  the  heat 
smacking  you  on  the  back,  and  slapping  you  in  the 
face,  and  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills,  where  the  air  was 
shut  away,  you  gasped  as  if  you  were  drowning.  A 
hard,  brassy,  heartless,  wicked  kind  of  a  day:  a  day 
when  the  country  flaunted  all  its  worst  points  in  your 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  147 

face,  and  threatened  you  as  plainly  as  if  it  had  shaken 
a  spear  at  you,  after  the  manner  of  its  sons. 
Not  a  day,  assuredly,  to  put  heart  into  a  man  who  was 
beginning  to  want  it.  s 

I  don't  know  how  far  I  had  gone,  or  when  I  had 
turned,  but  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  found 
myself  close  to  the  Mission  again,  within  a  few  min- 
utes of  Government  House.  The  sun,  as  it  wore  down 
to  the  west,  had  lost  not  a  whit  of  its  power,  and  the 
glare  from  the  sea  was  almost  insupportable.  The 
leathernecks  clattered  and  shouted  in  the  cocoanuts 
like  a  ward  of  lunatics  let  loose.  I  hated  them,  and 
I  hated  the  Australian  crows  that  were  dodging  in 
and  out  of  the  mango  boughs,  screaming  a  long-drawn, 
mocking,  insulting  "  Ha-ha-ha ! "  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  nothing  tolerable  on  the  island-conti- 
nent of  New  Guinea  that  afternoon  —  myself  least  of 
all. 

There  is  nothing  sportsmanlike  about  Nature. 
When  you  are  down,  she  has  a  nasty  way  of  kicking 
you.  She  kicked  me  that  afternoon  —  not  only  kicked 
me,  but  danced  on  me.  At  least,  that  was  how  I  felt 
when  I  suddenly  met  Stephanie  and  her  father  coming 
out  of  the  Mission  grounds,  and  received,  from  one, 
the  usual  curt  official  nod,  from  the  other  — 

Well,  the  cut  direct  —  given  as  a  London  lady  can 
give  it,  without  actual  rudeness  —  just  a  bow  with  the 
eyelashes,  a  slight  change  in  the  set  of  the  lip  —  the 
mere  ghost  of  a  recognition,  that  said  as  plainly  as 
possible  — "  I  do  not  actually  cut  you,  because  I  am  too 
polite,  but  .  .  ." 


I48  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  stood  there  in  the  sun-parched  grass,  and  wished 
I  was  dead. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  shanty,  a  little  later,  I  found 
some  relief  in  kicking  Garia  off  the  veranda,  where  he 
was  chewing  and  spitting  betel  nut  with  hideous  in- 
dustry. 

"  You  brute,"  I  said,  adding  a  strong  expression  or 
two,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  sitting  there  ?  Go  off 
to  the  cook-house." 

Garia  took  me  in  with  his  bulging  crab-eyes,  and 
seemed  to  decide  that  I  was  not  too  dangerous  to  face 
out,  this  time. 

"  Me  wantum  talk  along  Taubada,"  he  pleaded,  has- 
tily shoving  a  quid  into  his  cheek. 

"  Go  and  be  hanged,"  was  all  the  reply  he  got. 

My  black  warrior  began  cramming  his  knuckles  into 
his  eyes. 

"  Wantum  talk,"  he  sniffed.     "  Wantum  one  girl." 

"  So  do  your  betters,  confound  you,"  said  I,  glaring 
out  to  sea  with  my  arms  folded,  and  probably  looking 
like  a  cheap  caricature  of  Napoleon  crossing  the  Alps. 

Garia,  oddly  enough,  seemed  to  find  something  en- 
couraging in  my  demeanor,  for  he  continued,  keeping 
a  cautious  eye  fixed  on  me,  but  showing  off  his  tears 
to  full  advantage. 

"  Wantum  marry  one  girl."     (  Sniff.  J 

"Where's  your  wife,  you  Brigham  Young?  " 

"  He  no  young,  he  flenty  old,  flenty  fight,  flenty 
talk,  no  work.  I  been  frow  him  away.  Wantum 
marry  one  girl,  Taubada."  He  wept  again. 

"  Garia,  you're  scandalous  in  the  last  degree :  one 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  149 

would  think  you  belonged  to  the  best  set  of  London 
society.  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Wantum  one  — " 

"  You  said  that  before.  What  you  want  alonga 
me?" 

The  crocodile  tears  dried  up.  Garia  straightened 
himself,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  came  down  to  business. 

"  Me  wantum  seventeen  shilling,  sixpence,  buy  five 
pound  tobacco  'long  store." 

"  That's  the  price  of  your  happiness,  is  it?  " 

"  Yessir.  Me  gettum  flenty  bead,  toya  (armshell), 
sapi-sapi  (shell  money).  Me  get  tobacco.  Mother 
belong  girl  he  talk  bad  along  me,  he  tell,  me  no  good. 
Suppose  me  give  five  pound  tobacco  along  that  mother, 
he  talk  good,  he  giving  girl.  Taubada,  you  give  me 
tobacco." 

His  face  was  as  plaintiff  as  a  child's,  his  big  brown 
chest,  all  shining  with  the  cocoanut  oil  he  had  rubbed 
on  to  make  himself  beautiful  in  his  lady's  eyes,  heaved 
up  and  down  with  his  anxiety  of  soul.  He  knew  very 
well  indeed  that  his  wages  were  anticipated  already 
for  a  month  ahead,  and  it  was  long  odds  this  addi- 
tional draft  on  the  future  would  not  be  honored.  The 
tears  were  already  in  his  eyes. 

"  Me  wantum  too  much  that  girl,"  he  sniffed. 

Utterly  unconscious  of  the  sport  the  gods  of  chance 
were  having  with  me  that  day,  I  clinched  my  own  fate 
as  well  as  his  with  my  reply. 

"  I  suppose  one  poor  devil  may  as  well  be  happy,  if 
another  can't.  There ! "  and  I  threw  a  sovereign 
across  the  veranda. 


150  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Garia' s  face  lit  up  as  he  caught  it,  but,  with  Papuan 
brusqueness,  he  offered  no  thanks,  turning  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  township  and  the  store,  without  a 
word. 

"Here,  you  ungrateful  beggar,  say  thank-you!"  J 
called. 

"  Thank  you,  Taubada,"  he  said,  hanging  on  one  re- 
luctant foot. 

"  Whose  girl  is  she  —  what  mother  belong  that 
girl  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling  that  I  had  some  right  to  know 
what  my  money  was  going  to  buy. 

"  Girl  belong  Guarume." 

"  Guarume !  There  are  two  Guarumes  that  I  know 
of.  What's  the  girl's  own  name?  " 

"  Tararua,  Taubada.  He  call  Tararua,"  explained 
Garia,  fidgeting  like  a  small  boy  with  a  sixpence  in  his 
pocket,  and  a  tart-shop  round  the  corner. 

"Where  she  stop?" 

This  last  was  shouted  down  the  track,  for  Garia 
had  taken  to  his  heels,  and  was  off  hot- foot  for  the 
store.  Most  reluctantly  he  checked  for  a  minute, 
called  out  — 

"He  stop  Govamen'  House,  along  Misi  Sefania!" 
and  stood  champing  his  bit  in  the  pathway. 

I  was  struck  dumb  for  a  moment. 

"  Taubada,  I  go  ?  "  called  the  lovelorn  suitor. 

"  Go ! "  I  answered,  and  he  was  away  like  a  bandi- 
coot. 

It  was  evening  now,  and  the  sun  was  low  down  in 
the  west  —  a  cloudy  evening,  after  the  heat  of  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  151 

day,  and  threatening  storm.  But  for  me,  the  sun  had 
only  that  moment  risen. 

Stephanie's  maid  and  my  cook-boy  enamored  of 
each  other,  married,  living  together  in  the  village !  (  for 
all  our  servants,  in  Port  Moresby,  went  out  only  by 
the  day).  Why,  a  five-act  comedy  could  not  have 
produced  a  neater,  more  convenient,  more  entirely  de- 
lightful coincidence.  My  spirits  went  up  again  with 
a  jump.  If  charity  is  a  virtue,  virtue  was  certainly 
not  going  to  be  its  own  reward,  in  this  instance. 

It  was  quite  a  new  cook-boy  who  turned  up  next 
morning.  Garia  was  a  good-looking  fellow  in  any 
case,  big  for  a  Papuan,  well-made,  and  finely  muscled ; 
and  he  did  not  neglect  the  business  of  personal  adorn- 
ment, as  a  rule.  But  his  toilet  to-day  surpassed  any 
previous  efforts  in  that  direction.  He  had  a  bird  of 
paradise  tail  on  each  side  of  his  head,  a  half-circle  of 
scarlet  hibiscus  flowers  above  his  forehead,  and  an- 
other of  green  parrot  plumes  behind.  An  aigrette  of 
combined  flower  and  feather,  two  feet  high,  nodded 
from  the  center  of  the  enormous  bush  into  which  he 
had  teased  his  hair:  his  ears  were  loaded  with  strings 
of  shell  money,  and  his  elaborate  harness  of  beads, 
teeth,  shells,  and  mother-of-pearl,  rattled,  as  he  walked, 
like  the  pebbles  on  a  stony  beach  when  the  tide  is  com- 
ing in. 

"  Hallo,  Garia,  you're  got  up  to  kill !  "  I  called  out. 
"  Guarume  she  been  talk  good  alonga  you,  eh?  " 

"  Guarume  she  talk  good.  I  go  talk  along  girl  to- 
day. Taubada,  by-an'-by  you  let  me  go  ?  "  he  asked. 


152  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Worboise  was  out:  I  had  the  house  to  myself.  I 
beckoned  Garia  up  on  to  the  veranda. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said.  "  Is  the  girl  willing  to  marry 
you?" 

"  I  think  she  wantum  all  right  by-an'-by,  suppose  I 
giving  her  flenty  bead,  calico,  seegar,"  averred  the 
lover. 

"  Suppose  you  give  her  something  big,  would  she 
marry  you  straight  off  —  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  no  got  somesings  big,"  lamented  Garia,  turning 
the  plaintive  stop  on  again,  and  watching  me  with  a 
magpie  eye. 

"  How  much  she  want,  marry  you  to-day?  " 

Garia  drew  a  big  breath,  and  appeared  to  reflect. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  letting  out  all  the  wind  in  his 
chest  with  one  gasp,  to  express  the  magnitude  of  his 
idea  — "  I  think,  she  marry  me  suppose  I  giving  her 
one  big  pig." 

This  was  no  joke,  for  the  current  value  in  trade  of 
a  big  pig  was  not  less  than  five  pounds.  However,  I 
was  not  in  a  state  of  mind  to  count  trifles.  The  sooner 
that  marriage  took  place,  the  better  for  me. 

"You  can  have  a  day  off  and  go  and  get  one,"  I 
said.  "  I'll  pay  for  it.  Bring  the  girl  up  here  to-mor- 
row, and  let's  see  whether  you  have  got  good  value. 
I  hope  you've  picked  a  decent  looking  one,  at  least." 

I  dismissed  him  with  a  lordly  wave  of  the  hand,  and 
sat  down  on  the  step  of  the  veranda  to  muse  and 
dream  on  my  own  account.  The  lotus-eating  mood 
was  on  me  that  morning :  I  did  not  feel  like  working, 
or  thinking,  or  doing  anything  but  lounging  here  by 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  153 

the  sea,  listening  lazily  to  the  lazy  drone  of  the  coral- 
reef,  and 

"  Falling  asleep  in  a  half  dream     .    .     . 
To  watch  the  ripples  crisping  on  the  beach, 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray.     .     .     ." 

.     .     .     Confound  the  boy! 

"  Taubada,"  said  a  monotonous  voice  at  my  elbow. 

It  is  not  necessary,  I  suppose,  to  write  down  what  I 
replied.  I  had  thought  him  half  way  to  the  village 
by  this  time  —  the  simple  savage,  bent  on  prosecuting 
his  simple  love  affair,  and  innocent  as  a  baby  of  all  that 
was  in  my  mind.  Why  couldn't  he  hurry  up  and  leave 
me  to  my  dreams  ? 

"  Taubada,"  remarked  the  bridegroom,  cramming  a 
chew  of  betel  nut  into  his  cheek  — "  Tararua,  she 
say  — " 

"  Well  ?  What  did  she  say  ?  Hurry  up  and  get 
off." 

"  Tararua,  she  say  Misi  Sefania,  she  been  cly  all 
night." 

He  was  gone  this  time  —  gone  like  a  lizard  when 
you  hit  at  it  with  a  stick.  His  paradise  plumes  were 
nodding  and  streaming  in  the  sunlight,  a  long  way 
down  the  track  —  quite  a  hundred  yards  from  the  spot 
where  I  was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  petrified. 

The  simple  savage,  indeed! 

"  Worboise,  I'm  going  to  Government  House,"  said 
I,  some  hours  later. 

We  had  had  our  supper,  excellently  cooked  by  Adi- 
lawa,  the  ex-head-boiler,  and  were  smoking  outside. 


154  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

The  night  was  outrageously  warm,  with  a  low  plum- 
colored  sky,  hanging  heavily  over  a  dead  black  sea. 
Our  sleeves  clung  wet  with  perspiration  upon  our  arms : 
we  had  taken  off  ties,  unfastened  shirts,  kicked  off 
shoes,  but  coolness  was  not  to  be  found,  that  night, 
upon  the  length  and  breadth  of  New  Guinea. 

"  Now  look  here,  boy,"  said  Worboise,  taking  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  turning  a  reproachful  gaze 
on  me  — "  do  you  think  this  is  the  sort  of  night  to 
tramp  two  miles  out  and  home  ?  " 

He  always  called  me  "  boy  " —  not  because  I  was 
one,  at  thirty  years  of  age,  but  because  —  I  suppose  — 
he  was  misguided  enough  to  have  some  sort  of  a  fancy 
for  me,  in  spite  of  my  being,  like  Carlyle,  "  gey  ill  to 
live  wi',"  at  times. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  I  said  selfishly,  knowing  that  the  old 
fellow  was  too  good-natured  to  refuse,  and  too  so- 
ciable to  let  me  go  alone.  "  You  won't  feel  the  heat 
half  so  much  if  you  get  up  and  stir  about." 

"  Well,  boy,  youth  will  be  served,"  said  my  compan- 
ion, getting  up  heavily.  "  You  won't  want  me  to  put 
on  a  collar?  "  with  a  reproachful,  fishlike  gaze. 

"  No,  no !  "  I  said  hastily.  "  I  shall  wear  one  my- 
self—  at  least,  I'll  take  it  in  my  pocket,  and  put  it  on 
after  the  flat  —  but  you're  all  right  with  a  tie." 

Worboise,  nodding  his  head  sadly,  went  into  the 
house  to  adorn  himself,  and  shortly  afterwards 
emerged  ready  for  the  road. 

Blessings  on  his  dear  old  stupidity!  He  never 
asked  a  question,  or  saw  anything  that  you  didn't  want 
him  to  see,  or  remarked  on  your  dress,  or  demeanor, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  155 

or  indeed,  on  "  anything  that  was  yours."  He  never 
wanted  to  know,  in  short.  Despite  his  appalling  talk- 
ativeness, he  was  not  one  of  the  worst  to  get  on  with. 
And  I  really  think  the  Governor  liked  his  visits  and 
himself  as  well  as  he  liked  anyone  —  certainly  better 
than  he  liked  mine,  or  me. 

Certainly,  my  welcome  that  night  was  a  good  deal 
cooler  than  the  weather.  I  do  not  know  what  His  Ex- 
cellency had  seen  or  guessed  —  come  to  that,  there  had 
really  been  nothing,  so  far,  for  him  to  see  —  but  I  had 
scarcely  set  foot  on  the  veranda,  before  it  became  plain 
that  my  presence  was  not  ardently  desired.  Captain 
Hammond  greeted  me  in  a  wooden  manner  peculiar  to 
himself,  and  immediately  became  absorbed  in  some 
small  carpentry  upon  which  he  was  at  work,  without 
another  word.  Stephanie  had  not  made  her  appear- 
ance yet.  Carolan  was  not  there  either.  Worboise 
and  I  were  left  alone  with  the  Governor,  and  His  Ex- 
cellency did  not  seem  inclined  to  smooth  away  any 
awkwardness  we  might  feel. 

My  good  old  chum  weighed  in  at  once  with  a  de- 
tailed account  of  a  head-hunting  party  in  the  Solomon 
Islands,  in  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  join,  on  pen- 
alty of  leaving  his  own  head  behind  him  to  decorate 
the  local  devil-temple.  I  must  say  there  was  rather 
too  monotonous  a  flavor  of  cannibalism  about  Wor- 
boise's  reminiscences,  and  it  seemed  as  if  His  Excel- 
lency had  had  as  much  anthropophagical  anecdote  as  he 
cared  for,  on  the  whole :  for  he  cut  brusquely  into 
Worboise's  yarn  before  long, —  just  as  the  head-hunt- 
ers had  set  the  narrator  to  gather  Solamum  Anthro- 


156  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

pophagus  for  the  flavoring  of  the  pot,  as  a  preventive 
of  indigestion  —  and  asked  him  did  he  ever  lose  his 
keys? 

Worboise  gasped  at  the  sudden  change  of  subject, 
and  looked  more  fishlike  than  ever  for  a  moment.  He 
had  scarcely  time  to  get  his  bearings  again,  and  start 
a  fresh  yarn  about  the  time  he  lost  the  key  of  the  box 
that  had  all  his  cartridges  in  it,  just  as  a  hundred  New 
Hebrideans  armed  with  Tower  muskets  were  coming 
down  on  his  schooner,  before  the  Governor  scattered 
the  New  Hebrideans,  as  he  had  scattered  the  Solomon 
Islanders,  with  a  yawn  and  an  interruption.  He  suf- 
fered extremely  from  the  loss  of  keys  by  the  boys,  he 
informed  Worboise  (still  leaving  me  out  of  the  con- 
versation) and  he  was  making  a  key-box  with  a  slit 
in  the  lid,  to  be  kept  locked,  and  to  receive  the  vari- 
ous keys  after  the  fashion  of  a  charitable  collection- 
box  in  a  church.  How  they  were  to  get  out  again  I 
forget,  for  at  this  point  my  attention  became  diverted 
to  certain  mysterious  noises  from  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  I  was  dimly  conscious,  for  the  next  few 
minutes,  of  a  hard  wooden  voice  proclaiming  with 
countless  capital  I's,  a  great  many  general  truths  about 
keys  and  locking  up,  and  staples  and  padlocks  and  let- 
ter locks  and  chains  —  all  for  the  benefit  of  Worboise, 
who  was  listening  in  a  dull  hypnotic  manner,  and 
seemed  to  feel  that  somebody  had  taken  something 
from  him,  somehow. 

.  .  .  What  could  it  be?  It  sounded  like  the 
groans  of  someone  being  choked  to  death  —  someone 
fat  and  unwieldy,  who  made  a  heavy  scuffling  on  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  157 

earth,  and  fought  hard  but  hopelessly  for  freedom. 
.  .  .  There  were  voices,  too  —  whispering,  sup- 
pressed, excited  voices,  and  feet  that  pattered  and  ran. 
.  .  .  Native  voices,  native  feet  —  except. 

No,  surely,  it  was  not  the  voice  of  my  lily  maid  that 
I  caught  for  a  moment,  raising  itself  incautiously,  and 
then  subsiding  —  Stephanie's  voice  —  in  that  galley, 
whatever  it  was  ? 

Well,  if  not,  it  was  certainly  her  French  shoes  that 
clicked  hurriedly  across  the  dining-room  a  minute  after, 
and  herself  —  slightly  blown,  if  one  may  use  the  word 
of  anyone  so  elegant  —  and  just  a  little  less  exquisitely 
neat  than  usual  —  who  appeared  on  the  veranda,  and 
billowed  into  a  basket  chair,  after  shaking  hands  with 
Worboise  and  myself  very  politely,  and  just  as  if  she 
had  never  seen  us  before.  I  liked  that,  on  the  whole : 
she  was  overdoing  things  in  a  way  that  pleased  me 
.  .  .  if  I  said  through  experience,  it  would  look 
vain,  so  I  won't. 

Dear  lily-maid,  she  looked  white  enough  this  even- 
ing to  suggest  that  Garia  and  Tararua  between  them 
had  been  telling  the  truth  about  her.  .  .  .  Crying 
all  night!  I  could  have  killed  myself,  for  being  the 
cause  of  that  —  and  again,  could  have  killed  the  gos- 
siping Garia,  at  the  thought  that  perhaps  I  wasn't, 
after  all! 

She  was  astonishingly  talkative  and  gay  to-night  — 
just  a  little  more  so  than  was  natural,  perhaps,  but 
it  was  charming,  nevertheless.  She  was  quite  witty 
with  her  father  on  the  subject  of  the  keys,  and  almost 
flirted  with  Worboise,  and  she  stitched  away  with 


158  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

lightning  stitches  at  the  bit  of  embroidery  in  her  lap, 
and  laughed  at  everything  and  nothing  .  .  .  and 
didn't  look  at  me  at  all.  As  for  me,  I  stared  — 
boldly,  and  rudely,  and  all  the  time.  I  was  getting 
tired  of  this  business  of  stolen  glances,  which  was  not 
at  all  in  accordance  with  my  constitution. 

If  the  Governor  saw  me,  I  did  not  care.  A  cat 
may  look  at  a  king,  and  an  unlucky  dog  of  a  trader, 
at  a  queen,  without  asking  for  permission,  any  day. 

Suddenly,  through  the  far-off  murmur  of  the  sea, 
and  the  nearer  murmur  of  pleasant  conversation,  broke 
a  piercing  yell  from  the  immediate  rear  of  the  house, 
followed  by  a  frantic  scuffle,  and  a  chorus  of  native 
shrieking  and  laughing. 

"It's  got  away!"  said  Stephanie,  half-rising  from 
her  chair. 

"What  has  got  away?  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this  ?  "  demanded  His  Excellency,  in  a  peculiarly  Ex- 
cellent manner.  "  May  I  ask,  Stephanie,  what  possi- 
ble connection  you  can  have  with  the  killing  of  pigs 
—  which  is  apparently  the  cause  of  the  agitation  out- 
side —  and  what  reason  anyone  can  have  for  killing 
or  bringing,  pigs  here  at  this  time  of  night?" 

Most  girls  would  have  wilted  away  under  the  Gov- 
ernor's tone,  but  Stephanie  had  something  of  Stephen's 
spirit  in  her,  to  all  appearance,  and  she  answered  with 
perfect  composure. 

"  It's  Tararua's  wedding,  Papa.  They  aren't  killing 
the  pig  —  it's  a  present." 

Obviously,  Garia,  having  "  found  out  a  gift  for  his 
'fair  "  had  come  up  to  present  it  in  person.  Stephanie's 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  159 

words  seemed  to  suggest  that  the  gift  had  won  the 
lady's  heart. 

"  What  were  you  doing  out  there  ?  " 

Stephanie  drew  a  silken  thread  through  her  canvas, 
and  inspected  the  effect 

"  I  ?  Oh,  Tararua  wanted  me  to  see  the  presents : 
she  has  got  quite  a  lot  of  things,  beads  and  tobacco 
and  so  on,  as  well  as  the  pig.  I'm  sorry  it  disturbed 
you,  Papa :  I  was  trying  to  make  them  keep  quiet." 

"  Where  does  the  marriage  take  place  ?  "  demanded 
the  Governor.  I  could  see  that  he  was  only  follow- 
ing out  his  usual  habit  of  inquiring  into  everybody's 
business  on  general  principles,  but  I  could  also  see  that 
Stephanie  was  not  quite  easy. 

"  They're  all  going  down  to  Hanuabada  for  the 
feast  now,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  there  will  be 
much  noise  — •  just  a  little  dancing." 

The  Governor  drove  his  chisel  into  the  wood. 

"Who's  she  marrying?"  he  asked. 

"  A  Motuan  boy  from  the  village."  Stephanie  had 
stopped  embroidering,  and  was  sitting  with  her  hands 
folded  up  tight  on  her  work. 

«  Wh  — " 

.  .  .  It  was  an  awful  crash.  The  palm-stand 
was  solidly  made,  but  the  great  clay  pot  that  held 
the  plant  burst  like  a  shell  on  the  floor,  and  scattered 
earth  and  roots  and  leaves  over  half  the  veranda.  I 
was  fulsomely  apologetic ;  I  abused  my  own  clumsiness 
heartily:  I  groveled  on  the  floor,  helping  the  boys  to 
clear  up. 

The  incident  lasted  a  good  five  minutes,  and  by  the 


160  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

time  it  was  concluded  with  the  departure  of  the  de- 
pressed palm  for  re-potting,  nobody  was  thinking 
about  anything  else. 

.  .  .  Or  almost  nobody.  As  I  went  back  to  my 
seat,  Stephanie,  screened  by  my  passing  figure,  looked 
up  at  me  and  smiled  a  smile  that  said  "  Thank-you !  " 
as  plain  as  print. 

So  she  knew  —  and  she  did  not  mind  —  and  we 
were  allies  she  and  I,  against  her  father ! 

"  It  marches,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  regained  my 
seat. 

I  said  before,  and  I  say  again,  that  the  Governor 
could  have  known  nothing  —  could  have  seen  noth- 
ing —  nothing  at  all.  But  Providence  had  certainly 
furnished  him  with  means  of  informing  himself  about 
other  folks'  affairs,  in  some  occult  manner  special  to 
himself.  I  did  not  know  how  much  he  comprehended, 
but  I  was  sure  that  it  was  no  small  proportion  of  the 
truth,  when  I  rose  to  say  good-by  that  night. 

Stephanie  had  been  sent  off  to  her  room,  on  the 
grounds  that  she  looked  tired  —  which  was  true 
enough.  I  did  not  care  to  stay  on  after  she  had  left, 
and  rose  to  take  my  leave  almost  immediately. 

"  Good-night,"  said  His  Excellency,  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  and  giving  me  a  wooden  hand.  "  I 
have  been  much  interested  in  all  you've  told  me  about 
the  country  and  so  on:  very  good  of  you  to  take  the 
trouble.  You  must  call  here  after  your  next  journey 
inland,  and  tell  me  all  about  it  I've  been  interested 
in  meeting  you,  Mr.  —  a  —  Mr.  Lynch  —  but  you 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  161 

really  mustn't  let  me  take  up  any  more  of  your  time. 
Good-by." 

.  .  .  Down  the  hill,  out  on  to  the  dark  flat, 
where  the  mosquitoes  worried  like  dogs,  through  the 
black  mangrove  swamp  where  the  crocodiles  crept 
.  .  .  for  the  last  time.  I  had  been  turned  out  — 
civilly,  amiably,  but  unmistakably,  turned  out. 

Was  it  marching? 

Good  old  Worboise  had  been  up  in  the  clouds  as 
usual,  and  never  heard  a  word.  He  told  me,  on  the 
way  home,  about  the  cannibals  of  the  Aird  River 
country,  and  how  they  boil  sticks  of  sage  with  their 
food,  and  about  a  Fly  River  tribe  that  eats  corpses, 
provided  they  haven't  died  of  a  wasting  disease  that 
spoils  the  fat.  I  half  heard  him,  and  half  not.  I 
was  thinking  busily,  and  the  burden  of  my  thought 
was  —  What  next  ? 

Reading  all  this  over,  here  in  cool  blood,  with  time 
—  aye,  time  and  to  spare  —  for  quiet  thinking,  I  have 
become  conscious  that  some  excuse  for  my  conduct 
would  be  well  in  place.  If  I  had  one  to  offer,  I  would 
certainly  add  it  to  these  scrawled  and  melancholy 
pages.  But  I  have  not.  I  did  what  was  foolish  when 
I  married  Kari  the  Papuan,  and  I  suffered  for  it.  I 
did  what  was  both  selfish  and  foolish,  when  I  made 
love  to  snow-drop  Stephanie,  and  not  only  I,  but  she, 
have  suffered,  and  will  suffer,  for  that.  If  I  could 
excuse  myself,  I  would,  but  what  excuse  is  there,  save 
that  God,  or  the  Devil,  or  it  may  be  myself,  made  me 
one  of  those  who  never  count  the  cost? 


162  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

And  yet, —  perhaps  there  is  an  excuse  after  all; 
but  it  is  hard  to  put  it  into  words.  Or  rather,  it  is 
so  easy  to  put  it  into  words,  that  the  words  have  lost 
all  their  force.  What  is  it,  to  say  — "  I  loved  her, 
she  loved  me "  ?  Every  schoolgirl's  manuscript 
"  story  "  tied  up  with  pink  ribbon,  and  hidden  in  a 
bottom  drawer,  reeks  with  the  phrase.  Every  ill  deed 
done  for  lawless  passion,  since  the  days  of  David  — 
every  silly  match  of  an  impulsive  pair  who  are  likely 
as  not  to  figure  in  the  divorce  courts  before  five  years 
are  out  —  is  undertaken  under  the  shield  and  justi- 
fication of  a  feeling  no  nearer  to  most  of  those  who 
call  upon  its  name,  than  are  the  stars  to  earth.  But 
still,  the  truth  remains  —  though  it  takes  the  pen  of 
a  Petrarch,  a  Shelley,  to  tell  it  worthily  and  clearly, 
that  "  true  love  "  is  not  as  other  love,  and  to  win  it 
in  all  honor  and  honesty,  a  man  and  a  woman  may 
pay  all  the  price  that  the  world  can  ask  of  them.  It 
will  be  a  heavy  price :  the  Fates  who  hate  true  lovers, 
take  care  of  that. 


CHAPTER  IX 

T  WAS  caulking  Worboise's  ancient  dinghy  down 
•*•  on  the  beach  next  morning,  when  Garia  appeared 
with  the  bride,  eager  for  my  opinion  on  his  bargain. 
His  finery  of  the  preceding  week  was  replaced  by  a 
plain  cotton  "  rami "  or  kilt,  and,  like  the  heroine  of 
an  early  Victorian  novel,  he  wore,  "  but  a  single  flower 
in  his  hair."  Obviously,  Garia  was  of  those  who  do 
not  believe  in  running  after  a  'bus  when  you  have 
caught  it. 

Tararua,  the  bride,  was  handsome  according  to  na- 
tive ideas:  her  nose  was  flat,  and  she  had  a  mouth 
like  a  frog,  but  she  was  a  fine,  upstanding,  large- 
limbed  girl,  with  big  black  eyes,  and  shining  teeth 
not  yet  blackened  by  betel  nut.  Her  demeanor  was 
better  suited  to  a  funeral  than  a  honeymoon,  being 
solemn,  sour,  and  unsmiling  to  the  last  degree:  this, 
however,  was  merely  dignity,  and  not  meant  to  suggest 
dissatisfaction  with  her  partner.  I  looked  at  her  with 
a  good  deal  of  interest  —  it  was  strange  to  think  of 
this  brown-skinned,  bush-headed  creature,  in  her  ballet- 
skirts  of  colored  grass,  attending  on  my  dainty  lady 
—  waking  her  from  her  morning  sleep,  taking  care 
of  her  pretty  clothing  and  delicate  toilet  accessories, 
knowing  or  guessing  at  all  her  little  secrets,  as  a 
woman,  black,  white  or  brown,  will  always  know  or 
guess  at  the  heart  of  another.  .  .  . 

163 


164  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Coarse  in  essence  as  I  knew  the  best  of  these  savages 
to  be,  it  seemed  almost  a  sacrilege. 

And  then  came  the  burning  recollection  of  that 
other  brown,  half-naked  girl,  gentle  and  attractive 
enough  to  outward  seeming,  untamed  daughter  of  can- 
nibals at  heart,  who  had  been  my  own  married  wife, 
and  whose  successor,  so  please  you,  I  was  aiming  to 
make  out  of  Stephanie  Hammond ! 

The  insult  of  it !  A  widower,  to  most  young  girls, 
is  less  attractive  than  the  bachelor  who  may  at  least 
be  supposed  to  meet  his  ideal  for  the  first  time  in 
her  to  whom  he  gives  his  name  —  but  the  widower  of 
a  black! 

"  I  hope  she'll  never  know,"  was  the  best  I  had  to 
say  for  myself. 

"  Taubada,  you  like  him?"  asked  Garia  anxiously. 
He  pushed  the  girl  forward,  turned  her  round  like  a 
doll,  smacked  her  solid  arms  with  his  hand,  and  showed 
the  thickness  of  her  hair  by  a  tug  that  would  have 
made  a  white  woman  shriek.  Tararua  only  stared 
at  me  with  her  glittering  beady  eyes,  and  kept  her 
hands  stiffly  by  her  sides  in  the  attitude  of  "  Atten- 
tion." She  was  evidently  determined  to  exhibit  the 
best  of  manners. 

"  Why,  yes,  Garia,  I  think  you've  made  a  satisfac- 
tory bargain,"  I  said,  dissembling  my  laughter.  "  She 
cost  a  good  deal,  but  she  seems  to  be  a  pretty  fair 
article.  Does  she  like  you  ?  " 

"  I  no  savvy,"  replied  Garia  contemptuously.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  eldritch  cackle  — "  Plenty  I  make  him 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  165 

work  by-'n'-by ;  he  go  'long  bush  to-day,  cut  down  tree 
for  fire,  carr)r  .water,  carry  wood,  carry  yam.  Flenty 
he  work,  this  my  wife,"  exultantly. 

"What  about  Misi  Sefania?  Won't  she  want 
Tararua  ?  " 

"  Misi  Sefania  he  tell  Tararua  he  stop  'long  village 
to-day.  To-morrow,  all  the  time,  he  going  Govamen' 
House  eight  o'clock.  Five  o'clock  I  make  him  get 
up  ...  quick,  go  work  for  me.  Very  good 
thing  I  getting  wife.  Taubada,  by-'n'-by  you  getting 
some  wife?" 

"  Perhaps,  Garia." 

"  He  work  along  you  flenty  ?  " 

"  No,  you  bet  she  won't.     I  work  for  her." 

The  bride's  face  gave  signs  of  life  at  this,  and  her 
frog-mouth  emitted  a  giggle. 

"  New  Guinea  way  more  better,"  said  Garia  cheer- 
fully. His  partner  giggled  again,  and  fixed  me  with 
a  beady  stare.  She  seemed  to  think  the  conver- 
sation irrelevant,  and  to  be  waiting  for  something 
else. 

"  Well,  if  you're  going  to  send  Tararua  to  the 
bush,  you  may  as  well  come  back  to  your  work," 
I  said. 

Garia  saluted  (he  had  been  in  the  Armed  Native 
Constabulary)  and  went  into  the  house,  yelling  an 
order  to  Tararua,  in  a  martial  tone,  as  he  went.  The 
bride,  however,  stood  planted  there,  looking  at  me, 
and  still  giggling.  She  was  certainly  waiting  for 
something. 

"  You  want  to  talk  along  me  ?  "  I  asked. 


i66  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

The  giggles  redoubled.  Tararua  bent  her  chin  down 
on  to  her  tattooed  bosom,  and  looked  up  under  her 
eyelashes. 

"About  Misi  Sefania?" 

"E !  "  came  the  reply,  and  forthwith  the  floodgates 
were  loosed.  A  perfect  river  of  pigeon-English 
poured  out  on  me,  mingled  with  cackles  of  the  purest 
joy.  Your  New  Guinea  native  is  a  born  newsmonger, 
and  Tararua's  cup  of  gossip  was  full  to-day.  That 
she  understood  the  purpose  of  her  hurried  marriage, 
however,  and  meant  to  live  up  to  the  situation,  was  as 
clear  as  daylight. 

"  Govana,  he  been  talk  strong  along  Misi  Sefania," 
she  rattled  breathlessly.  "  Cook  boy  he  telling  me, 
Govana  he  talk  Misi  Sefania,  blekfas'  time  to-day, 
he  saying  Misi  Sefania  look  out  along  Misi  Lineti 
(Lynch),  Misi  Lineti  giving  letter." 

How  in  heaven  .  .  .  But  I  wanted  to  hear 
more. 

"  Misi  Sefania,  he  talk  along  Govana,  he  says  Govana 
tell  dam  lie  (I  recognized  the  native  version  here), 
he  go  along  him  room,  shut  door." 

"Was  she  crying?"  I  asked. 

"  Laa-si !  "  said  Tararua,  using  the  emphatic  Motuan 
negative,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement.  "  He 
no  cly.  He  flenty  wild  along  Govana.  By-'n'-by  Govana 
he  go  'long  Misi  Sefania  room,  he  say,  he  wanting  some- 
sings,  cook-boy  no  savvy  what  he  want.  Misi  Sefania 
he  say  — '  No,  no,  you  resulting  me,  I  no  say  nothing, 
you  go  to  hell.''  (Native  version  obvious  again.) 
"  Govana  he  say  — '  All  right,  you  stop,  by-'n'-by  you 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  167 

talk.'     He  lockum  door,  he  go  out,  Misi  Sefania  he 
stop." 

This  was  news  with  a  vengeance.  How  His  Ex- 
cellency had  discovered  the  incident  of  the  note,  I 
could  not  guess :  but  it  was  exactly  like  him  to  ferret 
it  out.  It  was  clear  that  he  had  taxed  Stephanie  with 
favoring  me,  that  she  had  denied  it  —  as  she  had 
every  right  to  do,  considering  the  extremely  small 
amount  of  encouragement  she  had  really  given  —  that 
she  had  taken  refuge  from  further  questioning  in  her 
room ;  that  he  had  followed  her,  tried  to  extract  some 
kind  of  information,  or  possibly  some  promise,  from 
her,  and  failed,  and  locked  her  in,  to  meditate  on  her 
supposed  sins!  A  heavy  hand,  indeed,  to  deal  with 
my  fragile,  lonely  little  lady.  What  was  she  doing 
now?  Crying?  No,  I  would  swear  not.  There  was 
a  blade  of  steel  in  that  silken  scabbard  —  Stephanie 
was  Stephen's  daughter,  though  her  beauty  could 
scarce  be  owing  to  him.  What  would  come  of  war 
between  such  a  pair  —  one  hard,  tyrannical,  overbear- 
ing, the  other  fragile,  yet  firm,  to  be  broken,  perhaps, 
but  never  to  be  bent  ?  .  .  .  And  I  —  I  the  cause ! 

I  threw  the  bride  a  stick  of  tobacco,  and  told  her 
to  go.  Then  I  went  into  the  house,  and  sat  down 
on  the  cane  lounge,  my  head  on  my  hands.  My  mind 
was  spinning  like  a  screw  raised  out  of  water :  I  could 
not  think. 

Old  Worboise  came  out  of  the  inner  room,  looking 
exactly  like  the  Mad  Hatter,  with  a  large  pannikin  of 
eleven-o'clock  tea  in  one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  bread, 


i68  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

extensively  bitten,  in  the  other.  He  sat  down  on  the 
other  end  of  the  lounge,  and  looked  at  me,  chewing 
solemnly. 

"  Boy,  you'd  better  have  it  out,"  he  said.  (As  if 
my  distress  were  a  tooth.)  "You  know  I  don't  go 
to  ask  questions,  not  in  an  ordinary  way.  But  this 
is  beyond  ordinary.  Set  up  comfortable,  and  say  it 
all." 

I  do  not  know  that  there  was  much  comfort  within 
range  that  day,  but  I  sat  up  and  told  the  whole  story, 
leaving  nothing  out.  And  certainly  at  the  end  I  felt 
better. 

Worboise  chewed  industriously  throughout  the 
whole  recitation,  making  no  comment  at  all.  When 
I  had  done,  he  swallowed  his  last  morsel,  emptied  the 
pannikin,  and  set  it  down.  I  can  see  him  now,  sitting 
there  in  the  warm  dusk  of  the  little  iron  house,  with 
a  hand  on  each  knee,  looking  not  towards  me  at  all, 
but  out  through  the  fiery-white  oblong  of  the  door- 
way, on  to  the  sand,  and  the  palms,  and  the  burning 
sea. 

"  Boy,  it's  a  bad  business,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Why?"  I  demanded  hotly. 

Worboise  took  up  his  tin  pannikin  again,  looked  in 
it  as  if  to  find  an  answer,  and  set  it  down. 

"  Because,"  he  said,  "  because  of  —  all  this  sort  of 
thing,  you  know."  (I  could  have  sworn  his  mind 
still  clung  to  the  battered  piece  of  tinware  —  in  truth, 
none  of  the  household  appointments  were  of  the  best.  \ 
"  It  don't  fit  in,  somehow." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  a  beggar,"  I  said.     "  You  know, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  169 

I've  always  worried  out  a  good  living  ever  since  I 
came  to  the  Territory,  and  I  only  wish  I'd  a  quarter  of 
the  money  I  made  and  spent  before  that.  I've  as  good 
prospects  as  any  of  these  whipper-snapper  Govern- 
ment officials  —  better,  if  it  comes  to  that.  Why, 
which  of  them  could  make  two  hundred  in  six  weeks, 
as  I  did  in  the  Astrolabe  and  the  Owen  Stanley,  not 
long  ago  ?  And  I've  other  irons  in  the  fire  that  you'll 
hear  all  about  by  and  by.  Why,  I'm  one  of  the  most 
successful  men  in  New  Guinea,  take  it  all  round.  If  I 
were  to  buy  a  schooner,  and  recruit  for  the  Queensland 
plantations,  or  go  back  to  the  beche-de-mer  or  the 
pearl  shelling,  I  could  make  a  little  fortune  in  no 
time." 

"  Well,  boy,  you  know  I'm  no  swell  myself,  but  I 
was  reared  in  the  Old  Country,  and  I  know  their  ways. 
And  you  was  something  of  a  swell  yourself,  when 
you  was  a  nipper,  so  I  believe.  Now  do  you  think 
New  Guinea  ways  is  ways  for  a  swell  to  take  to  ?  " 

"  By  God,  I  do,"  I  said,  getting  up  to  my  feet, 
"  swell  or  no  swell  —  if  she  loves  me.  If  she 
does,  she'd  go  to  hell  with  me,  and  be  happier  there 
than  in  heaven  without.  If  she  doesn't,  why,  let  her 
marry  that  lady's  lapdog  Carolan,  and  go  home  and  go 
to  tea-parties  all  the  rest  of  her  life  —  I  don't  want 
her.  But,  Worboise,  she  does.  I'll  swear  it.  I'm 
willing  to  allow  that  it's  foolish  of  her  to  care  for  a 
rip  like  me,  but  seeing  that  she  is  foolish  in  that 
particular  way  —  why,  what's  there  in  her  different 
from  the  women  who  helped  to  make  Australia  forty 
years  ago,  that  she  shouldn't  care  to  take  the  chances 


170  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

they  did?  They  were  just  her  sort,  many  of  them 
—  and  they  came  out  from  home  with  their  men,  and 
stuck  to  them  through  thick  and  thin  —  and  I'd  stake 
my  life  on  it  that  if  you  could  round  up  all  that's 
left  of  that  crowd,  and  all  that's  left  of  their  sisters 
who  stayed  at  home,  and  kept  their  nice  complexions 
and  their  place  in  society  —  you'd  find  the  Australian 
lot  thought  they'd  made  the  best  use  of  their  lives. 
.  .  .  And  think  of  her  people,  who  they  were  — 
Admiral  Steve  Hammond  of  Nelson's  staff  —  Scott 
Hammond,  who  nearly  did  Speke  out  of  the  discovery 
of  the  sources  of  the  lile  —  Gilbert  Hammond  of  the 
Crimea  —  and  as  for  her  father,  he's  the  hardest  case 
I  ever  met,  but  people  do  say  the  battle  of  Alexandria 
wouldn't  have  gone  the  way  it  did  if  he  hadn't  been 
there.  Blood  tells, —  a  girl  with  that  ancestry  wasn't 
meant  to  spend  her  life  curling  her  hair  for  dinner- 
parties. And  she's  stood  up  to  that  old  devil  of  a 
Governor  as  not  one  of  his  officers  would  have  dared 
to  do  in  a  month  of  Sundays.  And  we're  as  much 
engaged  as  if  I'd  asked  her  twenty  times,  and  seen 
her  a  hundred.  We  fell  in  love  with  each  other  the 
day  I  held  her  horse  on  the  Laloki  track,  only  we've 
both  been  fools  enough  not  to  know  it  —  and  —  well, 
she's  mine,  Worboise,  and  I'll  tell  her  so,  and  claim 
her,  just  as  sure  as  there's  a  God  in  heaven." 

"  Boy,  boy,  boy !  "  old  Worboise  sighed,  looking  at 
me  as  I  tramped  up  and  down  the  room.  "  Boy,  I 
seen  many  an  'asty  one,  but  never  one  as  'asty  as 
you.  Pluck  you  have,  and  luck  you  have,  and  looks 
you  have,  such  as  women  likes  better  on  the  whole 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALU  171 

than  the  pop-eyed  sort  with  a  pretty  mustarsh,  but 
common  sense  you  'aven't,  and  not  if  one  was  to  wash 
you  out  pannikin  by  pannikin  till  you  was  all  washed 
down  stream,  one  wouldn't  find  a  color  of  it  in  you." 

"  Common  sense !  "  I  said.  "  The  boast  of  everyone 
who  isn't  half  alive!  If  one  is  to  judge  of  it  by  the 
sort  of  folk  who  have  got  most  of  it,  heaven  save 
me  from  having  any.  But  I  never  really  knew  what 
most  people  mean  when  they  talk  about  it  and  I  don't 
believe  they  know  themselves." 

"  Some  do,  some  do,"  answered  old  Worboise  pa- 
tiently, "  but  you've  'it  the  nail  on  the  'ead  when  you 
say  you  don't,  boy.  I'm  not  blamin'  you,  you  was 
just  made  that  way." 

"  Well,  you  who  have  so  much,"  I  said,  rather  more 
scornfully  than  was  generous,  "  tell  me  what  you  think 
I  ought  to  do." 

"  I  won't  go  so  far  as  that,  but  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  think  you  oughtn't  to.  I  know  you're  fair  jumpin' 
to  be  off  to  Government  House,  and  tell  His  Excel- 
lency he  don't  know  'ow  to  manage  his  own  family, 
and  let  the  young  lady  out  of  her  room,  which  she's 
like  enough  out  of  by  now,  anyways.  But  I  wouldn't, 
boy,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Well,  I've  got  to  see  her  somehow,"  I  declared. 

"  If  you've  as  much  sense  as  would  lie  'eaped  up 
on  a  thruppenny-bit,  you'll  wait  till  you've  cooled  off 
a  bit.  You  see,  boy,  if  a  man  goes  to  'andle  women 
or  'orses  without  he's  cool,  he's  liable  to  get  thrown. 
You  wait  till  to-morrow,  when  that  Tararua's  back 
at  her  work,  and  don't  you  fret  your  insides  out  about 


172  WHEN  THE  RED  'GODS  CALL 

your  girl  being  in  a  comfortable  bedroom  for  a  day, 
with  'er  books  and  'er  work,  regular  meals  and  drinks. 
I'll  lay  you  His  Ex.  is  fair  ashamed  of  himself  by 
this  time,  and  she'll  be  out  for  a  ride  this  afternoon 
same  as  usual.  You  get  up  Paga  Hill  after  dinner  and 
see." 

The  strain  and  the  fury  seemed  to  have  eased  off 
by  now :  I  was  able  to  think,  and  I  sat  down  again. 

"  I'll  wait,"  I  said.  "  Only  till  to-morrow,  though. 
I  expect  things  will  have  straightened  out  by  then." 

"  You  may  take  your  davy  of  it.  Now  look-a-here, 
I  see  an  alligator  nest  in  the  mangroves  round  the 
point,  only  the  day  before  yesterday  —  two  dozen 
eggs  there  was  in  it  —  and  if  they've  taken  to  lay  in' 
about  there,  you  and  me  would  stand  a  good  chance 
of  pickin'  one  off.  Suppose  we  takes  the  Winchesters 
out,  and  has  a  try." 


We  spent  half  a  day  in  the  black  sludge  of  the  man- 
grove swamp,  and  got  no  more  than  a  distant  shot 
at  a  gray  streak  sliding  into  the  water  —  missed,  of 
course,  for  you  can't  hit  an  alligator  through  his  ar- 
mored tail  —  but  I  was  rewarded  for  the  tramp,  for 
the  big,  coarse  white  eggs  were  beginning  to  hatch, 
and  I  came  away  with  a  baby  alligator  tied  up  in  my 
handkerchief,  a  green-eyed,  needle-toothed,  wicked 
little  thing  no  longer  than  my  hand,  absurdly  harmless, 
and  absurdly  fierce.  I  put  it  in  a  kerosene  tin  full 
of  water,  and  left  it  there  while  I  climbed  up  the  hill 
to  look  out  for  Stephanie  and  her  horse.  She  came 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  173 

late,  but  I  saw  her  at  last,  riding  towards  the  Mis- 
sion, with  Carolan  and  the  Governor  close  behind. 

So  she  was  released !  I  felt  I  should  sleep  the  better 
for  the  knowledge. 

I  sent  the  alligator  to  Stephanie  that  same  evening, 
not  by  Tararua  —  I  did  not  wish  to  advertise  the 
bride's  connection  with  my  household  —  but  by  a  hired 
boy.  I  had  tied  a  blue  ribbon  round  the  ridiculous 
little  creature's  neck,  and  shut  it  up  in  a  tea  cannister. 
It  was  an  odd  love-gift,  perhaps,  but  New  Guinea  is 
an  odd  country. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  alligator  was  back  in  the  cottage, 
with  a  very  cool  little  note  — "  Miss  Hammond  is 
obliged  to  Mr.  Lynch  for  his  present,  and  regrets 
she  cannot  accept  it." 

But  I  threw  the  letter  above  my  head,  and  caught 
it  again  and  laughed.  For,  scribbled  very  hurriedly 
in  pencil,  on  a  corner  of  the  sheet,  was  the  one  word 
— "  Dictated." 

When  Garia  went  home  a  little  later,  he  carried  a 
note  which  was  to  be  smuggled  into  Stephanie's  room 
at  once,  by  Tararua.  It  ran  as  follows  — 

"  I  shall  be  waiting  under  the  big  rubber  tree  at  five 
A.  M.  Please  give  me  a  chance  to  explain  and  ask  par- 
don. HUGH  LYNCH." 


It  was  not  five  o'clock  by  a  good  ten  minutes,  when 
I  turned  up  the  grassy  avenue  from  the  sea  next  morn- 
ing, and  hastened  to  hide  my  white  suit  under  the 
huge  shadow  grove  of  the  rubber  tree  that  stands 


174  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

some  way  below  Government  House.  Very  shadowy 
indeed  it  was  at  that  hour,  for  the  sun  was  hardly 
risen,  and  only  the  tops  of  the  hills  stood  as  set  in 
full  day.  Under  the  great  Ficus,  the  ground  was  a 
brown  raffle  of  withered  leaves  for  hundreds  of  feet; 
no  grass  could  grow  beneath  that  dense  dark  shade. 
But  every  limb,  as  it  shot  forth  from  the  colossal 
trunk,  spanning  incredible  spaces  of  empty  air  with 
its  unsupported  length,  was  garlanded  all  over  with 
fern  and  feathery  creeper,  and  here  and  there  a  deli- 
cate pale  orchid  bloom  —  true  Gardens  of  Armida  in 
the  sky.  At  the  utmost  ends  of  these  giant  branches, 
the  smaller  boughs  swept  down  to  touch  the  ground, 
enclosing  within  the  magic  circle  of  the  tree  a  whole 
great  world  of  silence,  solitude  and  dark. 

Here  I  waited,  leaning  against  the  enormous  cen- 
tral trunk,  and  watching  the  vivid  rays  of  the  tropic 
dawn  shoot  arrow  after  arrow  through  the  loopholes 
of  the  boughs,  aiming,  as  they  aimed  all  day,  first  low, 
then  high,  then  low  again,  at  that  impregnable  pillar 
of  gloom  in  the  heart  of  the  forest  sanctuary,  and 
falling  short,  as  they  always  fell.  Beyond  the  palms, 
a  little  way  off,  the  sea  lipped  the  stones  of  the  boat- 
house  pier ;  the  tide  was  coming  in  with  scarce  a  ripple, 
but  you  could  hear  every  whisper  of  salt  water  on 
stone  and  weed,  in  the  breathless  hush  of  the  dawn. 
Strange  creatures  of  the  night  were  hurrying  home: 
a  giant  lizard,  as  long  as  a  man,  ran  by  like  a  guilty 
thing,  and  buried  itself  in  a  copse  of  dew-wet  spear- 
grass,  some  eight  feet  high  —  a  brown  wallaby,  with 
hanging  front  paws  and  silly  sheep-like  face,  bounded 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  175 

through  the  undergrowth  outside  the  tree,  in  long 
crashing  leaps,  and  vanished  almost  before  I  had  time 
to  turn  and  look  at  it.  A  hurried,  scrambling  sound 
somewhere  beyond  the  rubber  boughs  told  of  a  bandi- 
coot getting  home  to  his  burrow  in  a  bandicoot's  in- 
evitable state  of  fuss  and  flurry.  The  leathernecks 
in  the  mangoes  were  waking  up  now,  and  beginning 
an  offensive  "  Te  wakatipu !  O  do  come  here !  Te 
wakatipu !  O  do  come  here ! "  .  .  .  Surely  it 
was  time  for  Stephanie  to  come,  if  she  was  coming. 

And  then  I  saw  her,  coming  down  from  the  Gov- 
ernment House,  a  vision  of  floating  white  muslin  and 
white  parasol,  crowned  by  a  foolish  little  pink  bonnet 
just  like  a  rose. 

Looking  at  her,  unseen  myself,  as  she  came  down 
the  hill,  the  wild  improbability  of  the  entire  scene  took 
sudden  hold  of  me.  New  Guinea  is  a  land  where  the 
improbable  happens  every  day,  and  the  impossible  at 
least  once  a  week,  but  six  years'  residence  in  this 
craziest  of  countries  had  not  shown  me  anything  more 
unbelievable  than  Stephanie  Hammond,  coming  down 
that  ill-kept  grass  walk  among  the  tree-ferns  and  silk- 
cottons,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  meet  me, 
the  "  hardest  case  "  on  all  the  Papuan  island-continent 
—  Stephanie,  an  it  please  you,  who  never  had  looked, 
and  didn't  look  now,  like  anything  on  earth  but  the 
portrait  of  some  Lady  Ida  or  Lady  Millicent,  hung 
on  a  picture-gallery  wall  —  Stephanie,  who  was  as 
prim  as  a  primrose,  and  as  dainty  as  a  duchess,  and 
as  shy  as  a  little  white  nun.  .  .  . 

The  very  buckles  on  her  Parisian  shoes  —  the  very 


176  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

curls  on  her  immaculately  dressed  head  —  seemed  to 
cry  out  on  the  impossibility  of  the  thing.  All  that, 
within  stone's  throw  of  a  village  of  naked  savages, 
and  a  swamp  full  of  snakes  and  alligators  —  with  me 
in  the  foreground,  me,  Hugh  Lynch,  rough,  hairy- 
pawed,  burned  black  with  sea  and  sun,  and  dressed  in 
a  suit  of  slop-made  ducks  —  a  man,  I  suppose,  as 
God  made  me,  but  scarce  a  gentleman,  as  society  makes 
the  breed.  For  the  stretch  between  eighteen  and 
thirty  is  a  long  one,  and  Lynch  of  New  Guinea  was 
not  Lynch  of  Harrow  and  Sandhurst,  by  just  so  long 
a  gap. 

But  the  impossible  had  happened,  and  here  she  was, 
coming  to  a  halt  outside  the  sanctuary  of  the  rubber- 
tree —  pausing  on  one  foot,  listening  and  looking 
back,  and  listening  and  looking  forward,  with  some- 
thing of  girlish  fear  in  her  attitude  —  lips  parted,  nos- 
trils dilated  with  her  hurried  breathing. 

No,  it  was  not  fair  to  spy  on  her  like  that.  I  came 
out  from  under  the  branches,  offered  my  hand,  and 
hastened,  before  she  could  speak,  to  thank  her  for 
coming,  in  the  humblest  words  I  could  command.  For 
I  saw  that  it  had  been  touch  and  go  with  her  whether 
she  would  come  or  not,  and  that  she  was  almost  re- 
penting at  that  moment. 

"  Come  in  under  the  tree,"  I  urged,  "  it's  cooler 
there  " — a  silly  speech  to  make,  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  the  air  is  almost  cold  —  but  I  meant, 
and  she  understood,  that  it  was  safer. 

.  .  .  Half  dark  beneath  the  boughs,  the  sun  just 
up,  the  sea  sparkling  gold  and  crystal  through  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  177 

thick  tapestry  of  leaves  that  hid  us  away  from  all  the 
outer  world  —  earth  and  air  full  of  the  fresh  scents 
of  the  early  day,  and  never  a  sound  near  us  but  the 
breathing  of  the  wide  Pacific  in  the  bay  below.  .  .  . 
We  might  have  been  Adam  and  Eve  alone  in  Paradise. 
And  in  truth,  it  was  very  near  Paradise  to  me,  to  see 
those  blue  eyes  close  to  mine  in  the  gloom,  and  to 
note  the  hurried  swell  of  the  girlish  breast  —  guessing, 
as  I  did,  that  this  pretty  agitation  was  not  altogether 
unconnected  with  the  presence  of  ugly  Hugh  Lynch. 

She  began  to  speak  the  moment  we  were  under 
cover. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  think  of  me,  Mr.  Lynch 
—  I  really  don't  know  what  anybody  could  think  — 
but  I  had  to  speak  to  you  —  and  my  father  is  so  un- 
fortunately .  .  .  prejudiced  .  .  .  unreason- 
able ...  at  times,  that  he  obliges  me  to  act  in  a 
way  I  don't  like." 

I  bowed  my  head,  but  remained  silent  —  I  wanted 
her  to  talk. 

"  I'm  really  afraid  ...  he  must  have  said 
something  to  prevent  your  calling  again  —  it  seems 
most  absurd  .  .  ." 

She  seemed  to  lose  breath,  and  had  to  pause  for  a 
moment,  but  she  recovered  herself  with  admirable  self- 
command,  and  went  on. 

"  I  did  not  want  you  to  think  that  I  had  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  I  am  very  fond  of  my  father, 
but  I  don't  share  his  prejudice  against  everyone  who 
is  not  rich  and  important.  It  seems  to  me  —  well, 
snobbery.  But,  if  you  will  let  me  say  so  — " 


178  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL! 

"  Anything/'  I  said,  taking  her  hand,  and  trying 
• —  successfully,  I  think  —  to  look  as  if  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing.  Stephanie,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, left  her  hand  where  it  was,  and  went  on  speak- 
ing, as  if  she  didn't  notice  either.  Oh,  the  pretty 
game  of  love! 

"I  —  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  copy  out  poetry 
and  give  it  to  me,  or  send  me  — " 

"Alligators,"  I  supplied. 

"  Or  send  me  anything  .  .  .  you  see,  we  are 
such  slight  acquaintances,  and  people  talk,  even  here. 
And  Papa  found  your  note  that  evening  —  it  dropped 
out  of  my  pocket  —  and  he  was  very  angry.  He 
went  to  look  up  the  quotation,  but  he  didn't  find  it, 
because — "  with  a  mischievous  laugh,  instantly  sup- 
pressed —  "  the  page  wasn't  in  the  book  —  when  he 
got  it.  But  —  really  —  I  hope  you  understand  me, 
and  that  you  won't  write,  or  send  me  things  any  more ; 
it  would  be  so  much  better  not." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  I  asked.  My  other  hand  had 
closed  round  her  other  hand  now,  and  we  were  stand- 
ing there  in  the  green-lit  cavern  of  the  rubber-tree 
boughs,  holding  hands  like  children.  She  made  the 
least  little  effort  to  draw  away  but  I  looked  at  her 
with  an  expression  of  perfect  unconsciousness,  and 
she  let  her  fingers  fall  again.  ("I  don't  believe  he 
really  knows  he's  doing  it,"  said  the  innocent  girlish 
face.)] 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it,"  she  replied.  She  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  that  it  was  I  who  had  asked  her  to 
come  and  hear  me.  I  let  my  "  apology  "  go  by  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  179 

board  —  apologies  are  the  man's  excuse  for  a  meeting, 
as  good-bys  are  the  woman's,  and  neither  is  needed 
when  it  has  served  its  turn. 

"  I  will  not  write  to  you,  or  send  you  anything 
again/'  I  said  solemnly.  Whether  I  had  mental  res- 
ervations or  not,  is  a  matter  that  concerns  only  my- 
self. 

She  looked  as  if  she  had  not  expected  just  that 
reply,  and  there  was  a  perceptible  touch  of  hesitation 
in  her  next  speech. 

"  That  is  what  I     ...     ask." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  rather  wickedly. 

"  That  is  what  I  ..."  The  voice  drooped 
away. 

"  What  you  wish  ?  The  sea  sounds  so  loud ;  it  must 
be  a  high  tide.  What  you  wish  ?  Was  that  what  you 
said?" 

She  knew  that  I  was  holding  her  now.  She  knew 
that  something  stronger  was  holding  her.  To  women 
like  Stephanie,  I  think  the  coming  of  love  is  almost  as 
the  coming  of  death.  My  lady  paled  to  the  color  of 
her  own  white  dress,  and  her  hands  grew  cold  in  mine  : 
I  thougfit  for  the  moment  that  she  was  going  to  faint. 
But  she  did  not:  she  looked  straight  up  to  me,  and 
through  her  silence,  and  through  the  vivid  dawn  of  red 
that  broke  into  day  upon  the  cloud-soft  pallor  of  her 
face,  the  truth  shone  out 

Her  hands  were  fast  in  mine,  and  the  very  birds 
above  us  could  not  see  through  the  dark  dome  of  leaf 
and  bough  that  shut  us  in.  ... 


i8o  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  That's  quite  enough,"  said  a  rather  small  and 
smothered  voice,  close  to  my  ear.  "  I  think  you  are 
the  very  rudest  person  I  ever  —  Please  —  please !  " 

I  did  "  please,"  and  she  drew  back,  and  began  to 
straighten  her  dear  little  bonnet  and  her  hair. 

"  I  hope  you  are  ashamed  of  yourself,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  with  an  attempt  at  severity  about  as  suc- 
cessful as  a  canary's  attempt  to  scratch. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  marry  me  ?  "  was  all  I  an- 
swered. 

"Marry  you?"  said  Stephanie  Hammond,  drawing 
back  a  good  deal  further,  with  something  of  the  look 
of 

"  A  wild  thing  caught  within  a  trap, 
That  sees  the  trapper  coming  through  the  wood." 

"  I  never  mean  to  marry  anyone !  " 

"  Then  why  did  you  — " 

"  I  didn't  —  that  is,  I  forgot  —  and  you  are  so 
strong  —  and  besides,  you  really  are  the  very  rudest 
person  I  ever  met." 

"  By  Jove,  I  hope  so !  "  I  exclaimed  fervently. 

"  No  one  ever  was  so  rude  before,"  reproved  my 
little  lady,  who  was  getting  back  some  of  her  dignity 
now.  "  Several  men  have  asked  me  to  marry  them, 
but  they  did  it  nicely." 

"Yes,  and  a  lot  they  made  by  that,  didn't  they?" 
I  answered.  "  I'm  not  asking  you  at  all  nicely,  I'm 
only  telling  you  you've  got  to  —  after  letting  me  kiss 
you  three  times  — " 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  ,181 

"  Three !  It  was  more  like  thirty !  "  said  Stephanie, 
flaming  scarlet. 

"  All  the  more  reason.  I'm  sure  such  a  well- 
brought-up  girl  as  you  are  must  have  been  taught  that 
you  can't  let  any  man  kiss  you,  unless  he's  the  man 
you're  going  to  marry.  Haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Why  —  the  sister  at  the  convent  did  say  — "  fal- 
tered Stephanie,  almost  dumbfounded  by  this  exhibi- 
tion of  Saul  among  the  prophets. 

"  Of  course  they  did :  they  were  bound  to  —  and  so 
do  I.  No  nice  girl  ever  kisses  a  man  if  she  isn't  en- 
gaged to  him.  Surely  you  are  a  nice  girl  —  aren't 
you?" 

Like  most  really  adorable  women,  Stephanie  had 
not  much  sense  of  humor,  and  my  gravity  deceived 
her  completely.  (I  was  laughing  wildly  all  the  time, 
internally :  but  that  she  could  not  know. ) 

"I  —  I  have  always  tried  to  be,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  Then,  if  no  nice  girl  — " 

"  Please  don't  say  it  again :  you  make  me  so 
ashamed." 

"If  no  nice  girl  .  .  .  does  .  .  .  unless 
she's  engaged,  and  you  are  a  nice  girl,  and  you  did, 
then  you  must  be  engaged  —  to  me." 

Stephanie  looked  a  little  giddy.  She  opened  her 
mouth,  and  shut  it  again.  It  seemed  that  my  logic 
was,  for  the  moment,  unanswerable. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  demanded  triumphantly. 

But  I  had  not  reckoned  on  the  quickness  of  woman's 
wit. 

"  It  proves,  I  suppose,  that  I  am  engaged  to  you, 


182  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

but  not  that  I  am  going  to  marry  you,"  protested 
Stephanie.  "  One  can  be  engaged  without  being  mar- 
ried. And  I'm  not  going  to  marry  anyone :  I  mean 
to  be  a  nun  in  a  convent,  sometime  or  other  —  my 
mother  was  a  Catholic,  and  I  always  think  I  shall  be 
one  too,  when  I  am  older  .  .  .  I'm  sure  I  shall 
be  missed  if  I  stay  any  longer  —  good-by,  Mr. 
Lynch." 

"  Good-by,"  I  said  promptly.  It  is  a  good  general 
principle  always  to  give  a  woman  what  she  doesn't  ex- 
pect. 

"  You  must  not  write  to  me,"  said  Stephanie,  hesi- 
tating on  one  foot,  in  the  airy  pose  I  had  already  grown 
to  recognize  as  characteristic  of  her. 

"  I  will  never  write,"  I  said. 

l'  You  must  not  call." 

"  I  will  never  call." 

11  You  must  not  send  me  anything." 

"  I  will  never  send  you  anything  —  not  even  an  alli- 
gator, or  a  box  of  French  sweets." 

"  You  must  not  stare  at  me  like  —  like  —  like 
that!" 

"  I  will  not  stare  at  you  like  that,"  I  parroted,  look- 
ing down  at  her  shoe-buckles. 

"  Good-by."  She  held  out  her  hand.  I  shook  it 
very  politely. 

"  I'm  going  now."  She  gathered  up  her  amazing 
draperies,  and  dived  through  the  screen  of  boughs, 
while  I  held  back  as  many  as  I  could  grasp. 

"  Please  don't  come  here  again  —  it  might  get  me 
into  trouble,"  sounded  through  the  leaves. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALU  183 

"  I  will  not  come  here  again." 

"  Mr.  Lynch,  are  you  a  parrot  or  a  human  being  ?  " 

"Whichever  you  like,"  I  said  humbly.  "But  I 
would  rather  be  a  New  Guinea  lory,  than  either,  if  I 
might  choose." 

There  was  a  moment's  struggle  between  dignity  and 
curiosity,  and  then  — 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  a  voice,  outside  on  the  grass  walk. 

"  Because,"  I  said  sadly,  "  they  are  called  love- 
birds, and  they  always  sit  beside  each  other  on  the 
same  .  .  ." 

She  must  have  had  at  least  three  starched  petticoats 
on,  to  make  such  a  rustle  getting  away. 

It  was  really  rather  hard  on  Worboise,  who  wasn't 
in  love  with  anyone,  that  I  should  greet  him  with  a 
hail  fit  to  wake  the  dead,  when  I  got  back  to  the  house, 
a  little  after  six,  and  should  insist  on  his  rousing  up 
immediately  to  listen  to  the  tale  of  my  affections. 
But  the  old  fellow  was  always  good-natured,  and  he 
rubbed  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes,  and  elevated  his 
mighty  bulk  on  end,  without  a  word  of  complaint.  I 
pitched  myself  on  to  an  aged  hammock  chair  that  al- 
most gave  way  with  the  shock,  and  started  on  my 
yarn.  Worboise,  clad  only  in  a  native  tunic,  and  look- 
ing, underneath  the  protecting  gauze  of  the  net,  just 
like  a  very  fat  joint  in  a  very  large  meat-safe,  listened 
as  eagerly  as  if  the  tale  had  related  to  himself,  and  my 
heart  warmed  to  him  as  he  laughed  and  slapped  his 
stout  legs  with  appreciation.  That  he  was  a  very  silly 
old  man,  and  that  I  was  a  madly  imprudent  young 


184  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

one,  did  not  occur  to  either  of  us.  Worboise's  recent 
astonishing  display  of  worldly  wisdom  had  been  no 
more  than  stray  drift  of  flotsam  from  the  sunken 
Atlantis  of  a  prosperous  youth,  cast  upon  the  empty 
shores  of  age:  the  barren  sands  of  his  sixty  unsuc- 
cessful years  bore  no  more  such  fruit.  Both  of  us 
thought,  I  suppose  as  men  of  the  isolated  islands  do 
think  —  in  a  narrow  space,  intensely  lighted  by  per- 
sonal desires  and  feelings,  and  circled  roiind  by  an  un- 
considered  chaos  of  dark  that  represented  the  outer 
world.  You  and  I,  he  and  she,  are  all  the  figures 
that  find  room  in  this  narrow  lime-light  circle :  They 
• — the  mighty  They  before  whom  the  people  of  the 
inhabited  lands  burn  incense  and  bow  their  heads  — 
simply  do  not  exist.  This  is  one,  and  not  the  least,  of 
the  advantages  of  the  Never-Never  lands. 

In  cold  blood,  with  more  than  a  year  of  lonely  medi- 
tation between  those  days  and  these,  I  can  see  much 
that  I  did  not  see  then.  It  may  be  that  at  that  junc- 
ture, a  little  more  of  the  tyranny  of  "  They  "  might 
not  have  been  an  unmixed  evil.  But  I  suppose  what 
was  to  be,  was. 

Worboise,  as  I  say,  was  delighted  with  the  progress 
of  affairs,  though  he  evidently  felt  bound  to  keep  up 
his  character  of  Mentor  by  abusing  me  a  little. 

"  'Asty,  'asty ! "  he  grumbled,  looking  cloudily 
through  the  net.  "  No  patience  —  no  prudence  — 
just  as  I  always  said  .  .  .  Lord,  boy,  it's  what 
I'd  a-done  myself  when  I  was  a  young  feller  of 
thirty."  (Worboise  would  persist  in  classing  me  as  a 
mere  green  youth,  from  the  height  of  his  thirty  extra 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  185 

years.)  "I'm  blest  if  I  wouldn't.  I'm  blest  if  I'm 
not  sorry  I  never  did." 

The  idea  of  Worboise,  at  any  age,  paying  matri- 
monial court  to  the  counterpart  of  Stephanie,  was  too 
much  for  me,  and  I  lay  back  in  the  chair  and  roared. 
But  the  old  fellow  did  not  notice :  something  had  set 
him  off  on  his  autobiographical  rocking-horse,  and  he 
was  swinging  away  at  the  usual  pace. 

.  .  .  "fWhen  I  was  up  in  the  Orokiva  country, 
years  and  years  ago,  there  was  an  old  chap  there  was 
married  to  nine  or  ten  of  as  nice  girls  as  you'd  wish 
to  see,  they'd  all  got  'eads  on  them  as  big  as  bar'ls, 
and  they  was  tattooed  beautiful,  just  like  watered  silk, 
Omai  the  feller's  name  was,  and  he  was  a  big  chief 
among  the  Orokiva.  Now  I  was  trading  there  for 
native  rubber  with  the  people,  bits  of  broken  bottle 
glass  which  they'd  shave  themselves  with  was  what  I 
gave  for  it,  and  I  tell  you  it  used  to  pay  me  well, 
though  there's  that  much  of  original  sin  in  an  Oroki- 
van  they  took  like  Christians  to  adulteratin'  the  stuff 
with  little  stones  just  as  soon  as  they  found  out  it 
could  be  done,  well,  I  got  to  know  a  good  deal  of  their 
talk  and  one  of  trie  times  I  went  collectin'  rubber 
Omai  he  came  to  my  tent  and  cadged  a  bit  of  biscuit 
which  I  gave  him  and  he  set  up  on  his  'ams  nibblin' 
it  like  a  monkey,  and  says  I,  Omai  what  have  you  got 
married  that  often  for  it's  a  ...  expensive 
thing  gettin'  married  either  for  the  white  man  or  the 
'eathen  in  his  blindness,  says  I,  and  I  don't  see  how 
you  make  out  it  pays,  Omai  he  was  a  reel  nice  feller, 
he  says,  just  as  friendly  as  it  might  be  you  and  me, 


186  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

he  says,  why,  I  haven't  got  all  them  wives  all  the  time, 
he  says,  they  doesn't  last  out  well,  what  with  the 
fightin'  and  rowin'  among  themselves,  when  a  man 
will  'it  one  or  two  of  them  over  the  'ead  with  a  pine- 
apple stone  club,  he  says,  and  maybe  'it  too  'ard,  and 
what  with  the  tonguin'  and  abusin'  of  me  night  and 
day,  he  says,  which  I've  eat  two  of  them  for,  but  it 
don't  seem  to  teach  the  rest,  he  says,  with  all  that  it 
takes  a  good  few  on  hand  to  make  sure  that  I  won't 
wake  up  some  morning  and  find  myself  alone  with  only 
one  wife  like  a  low-down  common  feller,  he  says,  be- 
sides, he  says,  when  a  man's  gettin'  old,  how's  he  to  keep 
his  end  up  if  he  ain't  got  no  sons  to  make  into  fightin' 
men  and  show  them  the  way  about,  he  says,  why  he's 
no  more  account  than  a  mud-crab  livin'  in  an  'ole  by 
itself  in  the  swamp,  he  says,  so  that's  another  reason 
why  I  keep  my  wives  up  to  the  mark  he  says,  for  what 
with  the  alligators  and  adders  and  boar  constrictors, 
he  says,  and  the  tribes  up  in  the  'ills  that's  always  on 
the  look-out  for  a  nice  well-fed  baby,  in  yam-feastin' 
time,  there's  no  knowing  when  a  house  won't  find  it- 
self right  out  of  children  unexpected-like,  he  says. 
And  then  he  cadges  another  two  biscuits,  and  a  stick 
of  tobacco,  before  he  goes  away,  and  I  gives  it  him 
willing,  because  of  the  good  sensible  talk  he'd  made." 
Worboise  had  been  getting  up  as  he  spoke,  and  was 
now  clad  in  the  green  and  yellow  suit  of  pyjamas  that 
was  his  usual  indoor  attire.  The  glare  from  the  shal- 
low reef-water  below  the  beach  slanted  through  the 
open  door,  and  shone  right  upon  his  face:  I  thought 
he  looked  old  and  tired. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  187 

"  Look-a-here,  boy,"  he  said,  dropping  weightily  on 
a  chair,  and  staring  down  at  his  bare  sunburned  feet 
— "  it's  true  for  white  men  and  for  black,  what  Omai 
said.  When  a  man's  gettin'  old,  without  he  has  chil- 
dren, he's  no  more  account  than  a  crab  in  a  mud-'ole 
by  itself.  Fellers  don't  understand  that,  not  till 
they're  gettin'  on.  When  you're  five-and-twenty,  you 
says  you'd  like  to  see  the  woman  as  could  put  your 
neck  into  the  collar — -meanin'  you  wouldn't  like  to, 
and  don't  intend  to.  When  you're  a  bit  more,  and 
you  see  the  other  fellers  worried  with  wives  that's 
cross  and  overworked,  and  kept  awake  with  cryin' 
babies,  and  washin'  hangin'  all  over  the  'ouse,  and  lit- 
tle nippers  screamin'  and  fightin'  in  the  yard,  and  the 
feller's  tobaccy  goin'  to  pay  for  Jinny's  boots,  and 
'is  bit  of  money  that  he  was  keepin'  for  the  Cup,  ate 
up  by  Tommy's  measles, —  well,  you  says  to  yourself 
— '  A  young  man  married  is  a  young  man  marred  ' : 
thank  God  I've  'ad  the  sense  to  keep  me  family  all 
under  me  'at,  says  you. 

"  An'  the  time  goes  on  some  more,  and  the  girls  is 
not  as  fond  of  you  as  they  was,  but  still  there's  some 
that's  ugly,  or  a  bit  the  worse  for  wear,  keeps  on 
smilin'  sweet  as  sugar  at  you,  and  you  goes  about 
sayin'  to  yourself  that  you're  the  devil  of  a  fellow, 
but  that  they  don't  catch  this  bird  with  chaff,  and 
you're  proud  of  yourself.  And  then  all  of  a  sudden 
there's  no  more  girls,  and  they  don't  want  you  at 
swarrees,  and  when  there's  a  picnic  to  the  bush,  or  a 
drive  to  the  seaside  in  brakes,  according  whether  it's 


r88  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Australyer  or  'ome,  and  you  goes  to  take  a  ticket,  they; 
says  — '  Who  do  you  want  it  for  ?  ' 

"  And  the  Jinny s  and  the  Tommys  is  grown  up, 
and  walks  about  with  their  fathers,  which  you  thought 
was  quite  young  fellers  same  as  you  till  you  see  that, 
and  then  you've  got  to  believe  they  ain't  —  same  as 
you. 

"So  now  you  thinks  —  'Well,  if  I'm  gettin'  old, 
I'm  gettin'  wise  —  law,  the  'caps  of  things  I've  seen, 
and  the  troubles  I  could  keep  young  chaps  out  of,  if 
they'd  listen  to  me,' —  and  you  gets  'auntin'  round  the 
lads  of  twenty,  and  tryin'  to  give  them  advice,  same 
as  if  you  was  their  father  —  but  there  you  ain't  no 
one's  father,  and  no  one  wants  to  'ear  you  gab. 

"  And  you  keeps  gettin'  older,  and  now  it's  the 
young  fellers  of  thirty  you've  a  likin'  for,  because 
that's  the  age  our  Billys  and  Tommys  would  have 
been,  if  you'd  'ad  all  them  little  kids  screamin'  and 
wakin'  you  up  of  nights,  and  eatin'  and  wearin'  your  to- 
baccy  and  your  drinks,  same  as  your  mates  that  you 
was  sorry  for.  And  per'aps  you're  fool  enough  to 
get  fond  of  one  of  them,  but  just  as  like  as  not  'e  says 
to  'imself  quiet-like,  when  you're  on  the  gab,  that 
you're  a  bloomin'  old  nuisance  any'ow,  and  —  Boy, 
boy,  you  don't  know  'ow  strong  you  are,  don't  never 
clap  me  on  the  back  again  like  that.  O  Lord,  Hugh, 
you've  fair  knocked  the  life  out  of  me! " 

"  Just  what  you  deserve  for  talking  rot ! "  I  said, 
as  he  leaned  over  his  chair  and  coughed,  with  a  certain 
dampness  about  his  eyes  that  I  don't  think  the  cough 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  189 

was  accountable  for.  We  reached  out  suddenly  for 
each  other's  hands,  and  executed  a  mutual  shake. 

"  What's  it  all  about  ?  "  said  I.  "  Am  I  to  marry 
nine  ladies  and  eat  them  when  they  get  quarrelsome?  " 

"  You  leave  me  get  round  things  in  my  own  way, 
boy ;  I'm  slow,  but  I'm  sure.  What  I  mean  to  say  is, 
I'm  glad  you've  picked  your  girl,  and  I'm  glad  she's 
picked  you,  and  I  wish  the  two  of  you  luck,  and  many 
of  them,  for  I  tell  you  'angin'  round  likin'  other 
men's  sons  when  you're  old,  because  you've  got  none 
of  your  own,  is  about  as  much  fun  as  dinin'  off  the 
smell  of  other  folks'  dinners." 

There  was  a  personal  note  in  all  this  that  I  could 
not  help  but  hear.  Worboise  knew  he  was  losing  the 
man  who  had  been  in  the  place  of  a  son  to  him,  for 
the  best  part  of  a  year,  and  he  took  it  a  good  deal 
more  hardly  than  I  was  worth.  But  what  could  I  say  ? 
If  we  had  been  a  couple  of  women,  we  could  have 
fallen  on  each  other's  necks,  and  wept  a  little,  and  had 
what  the  tender  sex  call  "  a  nice  cup  of  tea "  to- 
gether, and  so  smoothed  over  the  painful  moment. 
Being  a  man,  I  could  only  do  what  I  did  do  —  light 
my  pipe  and  stroll  out  on  the  beach,  leaving  my  old 
chum  to  "  find  himself  "  as  best  he  might. 

Marriage,  it  seemed  to  me,  even  the  shadow  of 
marriage  to  come,  changed  life  upwards  from  the 
root,  and  here  was  one  of  the  changes.  ...  I 
was  learning  new  things  these  days,  many  of  them, 
and  Stephanie,  the  little  inexperienced  school-girl,  was 
my  teacher. 


190  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Out  there  under  the  palms,  with  the  salt  ripple  crisp- 
ing at  my  feet,  and  the  lonely  trade  wind  humming 
over  the  sea,  it  came  to  me  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  what  this  age-old  institution  of  marriage  really 
meant.  Not  the  mere  ceremony  of  a  church  —  a  dozen 
ceremonies  never  would  have  made  Kari,  the  little 
savage,  my  true  wife.  Not  fierce  love,  such  as  I  had 
known  in  my  Spanish-American  days  —  ( "  husband 
in  the  sight  of  heaven,"  you  called  me,  my  Concepcion, 
tropic  lily  of  the  South:  yet  there  was  no  more  of 
heaven  about  our  bond,  than  about  the  gilded  chain 
you  broke  to  come  to  me).  Not  even  "the  mutual 
help  and  comfort  that  one  should  have  of  the  other." 
None  of  these  makes  true  marriage,  nor  do  all  three 
together.  What,  then?  Just  all  these  and  something 
more  —  something  that  no  poet  from  Solomon  and 
Euripides,  down  to  Goethe  and  Meredith,  has  ever  suc- 
ceeded in  putting  into  words,  but  that  every  "  true 
lover"  sees  and  knows,  when  he  looks  into  the  eyes 
of  the  woman  who  is  to  bear  him  company  through 
life  and  into  that  which  lies  beyond,  where  thought 
sinks  broken-winged,  and  fancy  may  not  follow. 

Love  of  the  body  —  companionship  of  the  mind  — 
and  of  the  soul,  what? 

God  knows.     But  it  makes  true  marriage. 

All  that  for  Hugh  Lynch  to  learn,  through  a  girl's 
blue  innocent  eyes  —  Hugh,  who  at  thirty  thought  the 
rose  of  human  love  had  not  a  petal  left  to  unfold  be- 
fore him,  not  a  breath  of  scent  that  he  had  not  drunk 
away!  .  .  .  Small  wonder,  indeed,  that  in  those 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  191 

wretched  weeks  in  the  Owen  Stanley  Range,  I  had  not 
known  what  was  the  trouble  that  had  taken  hold  of 
me ;  for  it  was  one  to  which,  after  all  that  had  gone  by, 
I  was  as  new  as  Stephanie  herself. 

It  may  have  been  because  of  this  that  the  thought 
of  these  old  loves  did  not  trouble  me,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that  no  man  could  give  more  than  his  best,  and 
that  Stephanie,  alone  of  all  women  in  the  world,  had 
had,  and  would  have,  that  of  me. 

If  I  do  not  get  on  faster,  I  shall  never  finish  the 
story  I  have  set  out  to  tell. 

There  is  so  much  to  say  about  those  few  cool-season 
weeks,  when  the  southeast  trade  ran  like  a  golden 
river  through  the  air,  and  nights  were  chill  towards 
sunrise,  and  the  red  full  moon  that  had  burned  like 
a  coin  new-hot  from  minting,  in  the  heavy  months  of 
November  and  December,  now  rose  in  the  west  clear 
and  cool  as  ice  from  the  far-off  peaks  of  Mount  Vic- 
toria,—  so  much  to  say,  and  yet  how  impossible  it  is 
to  say  it! 

In  those  days,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  all  my  life 
were  gathering  itself  together  like  a  river  rushing 
down  to  some  great  fall  —  drawing  every  tributary 
stream  from  far  and  near  into  the  one  resistless  flood, 
carrying  away  on  its  surface  like  withered  leaves  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  passing  days  —  sweeping 
always  onward,  always  faster  and  faster  in  its  deep- 
ening channel,  towards  the  one  sure  goal  whither  all 
the  forces  of  all  the  world  were  calling  it.  ... 

Looking  backwards  now,  as  one  might  look  from 


192  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  grave,  the  days  and  nights  pass  by  in  my  memory 
as  a  flying  blur,  lit  only  by  those  brilliant  stars  that 
marked  yet  another  meeting  with  Stephanie.  For  we 
had  met  again,  and  yet  again  —  with  the  knowledge  of 
my  lady's  incomings  and  outgoings  brought  me  by  the 
faithful  Tararua,  I  was  seldom  at  a  loss  for  an  op- 
portunity, and  as  for  using  it  when  it  came  —  well, 
a  man  who  has  learned  his  love-making  among  the 
Latin  races  of  Spanish  America,  generally  knows  his 
lesson  well.  .  .  .  Still,  for  all  that,  and  all  that, 
progress  was  sometimes  slow. 

I  had  kept  that  extorted  vow  of  not  writing:  I 
could  do  without  it  now  —  and  as  for  presents,  if  I 
sent  none  (in  accordance  with  my  promise),  I  brought 
many.  It  was  very  seldom  that  we  could  meet  in  the 
daytime,  but  in  the  quiet  hours  that  came  after  all  the 
native  servants  were  gone  home,  and  the  Governor 
had  tucked  himself  under  his  mosquito  net  at  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  Stephanie's  small  window,  that 
looked  out  on  the  clump  of  lemon  trees  beyond  the 
back  veranda,  saw  many  reproductions  of  the  "  bal- 
cony scene  "  so  familiar  in  the  loves  of  the  southern 
world.  The  village  went  to  rest  early:  the  lights  of 
Port  Moresby  died  out  soon  after  ten  —  we  might 
have  been  alone  on  a  desert  island,  by  the  time  mid- 
night had  tinkled  out  from  the  gilt  French  clock  in 
the  dining-room.  .  .  .  And  at  midnight,  or  a  lit- 
tle after,  would  come  that  "  rudest  man  that  Stephanie 
had  ever  met,"  creeping  into  the  shadow  of  the  lemon 
trees  (for  the  moon  was  terribly  bright)  and  waiting, 
perhaps  for  minutes,  perhaps  for  hours,  until  a  little 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  193 

stir  inside  the  room,  like  a  bird  turning  round  in  its 
nest,  would  tell  that  Someone  was  awake,  and  waiting 
too.  .  .  .  Then  —  it  was  sometimes  a  smartly 
fashioned  bouquet  of  fragrant  paw-paw  blossoms  that 
flew  in  through  the  high-up  window,  and  hit  an  invisi- 
ble mosquito-curtain  with  a  swaying  shock  —  some- 
times it  was  just  a  loose  bunch  of  brilliant  orchids, 
cold  with  midnight  dew, —  once  it  was  a  pearl  as  big 
as  a  pea,  that  I  had  fished  up  off  the  Angabunga 
River,  and  sent  flying  in,  cased  in  one  of  Nature's 
jewel  cases  —  a  hard-shelled  pod  from  a  silk-cotton 
tree,  tight  packed  with  snowy  down.  And  once  (but 
that  night  she  would  not  show  her  face)  it  was  a 
wreath  of  orange-blossom  smelling  sweet  as  honey, 
that  dropped  through  the  darkness,  right  into  her 
arms. 

I  waited  till  the  bay  turned  gray  in  the  dawning, 
but  never  a  gleam  of  the  silken  wrapper,  or  a  sight 
of  the  small  soft  face  shadowed  by  a  loosely  twisted 
knot  of  hair,  came  to  reward  me  that  night.  And 
the  next  time  I  came,  there  was  no  greeting  for  me 
either,  and  no  soft  footstep  stirring  on  the  mats 
within;  so  that  I,  thinking  I  had  surely  some  rights 
of  my  own  by  this  time,  was  constrained  to  walk  under 
the  house  (raised,  like  all  New  Guinea  houses,  six  or 
eight  feet  from  the  ground,  on  piles)  and  rap  cau- 
tiously on  the  floor  of  Mademoiselle's  room.  This 
brought  her  to  the  window  at  once,  agitated  lest  some- 
one should  hear :  and  she  stood  looking  down  and 
scolding  softly,  like  a  small  soft  bird  chirping  re- 
proach at  the  disturber  of  its  nest. 


194  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Careless  —  impudent  —  rash  ?  "  I  said.  "  So  I 
am  —  always  was.  Come  down  and  teach  me  to  be 
good." 

"  Most  certainly  not,"  said  Stephanie.  "  It 
wouldn't  be  right." 

"  Not  right  to  teach  me  to  be  good  ?  Oh,  Ste- 
phanie ! "  I  remonstrated,  in  the  serious  tones  that 
always  puzzled  her  unhumorous  little  head. 

"  It's  always  right  to  teach  people  to  be  good,"  cor- 
rected she  solemnly — "that  is,  if  you  know  how 
yourself  —  but  I  don't  think  one  ought  to  teach  them 
out  in  the  moonlight  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  Then  come  under  the  lemon  trees,"  I  suggested. 
"  There's  no  moonlight  there.  Stephanie,  you  can't 
imagine  how  I  want  to  talk  to  you  —  every  time  I've 
seen  you  I've  left  all  the  things  I've  wanted  to  say." 

"  If  you  wouldn't  be  —  rude  — "  she  hesitated. 

"If  you  mean  you're  afraid  I'll  kiss  you,  why,  I 
won't." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  must  always  say  everything 
—  men  are  so  —  so — " 

"  Yes,  of  course  they  are ;  but  you've  got  to  teach 
me  better.  Come  out  and  teach  me.  Do ! " 

"  You  ask  so  nicely  that  — " 

"You'll  come?" 

"  That  I  think  you  must  have  had  a  good  deal  of 
practice,"  said  Stephanie  shrewdly. 

I  lied  bravely,  of  course,  but  continued  to  beg. 
And  in  a  little  while  —  she  came. 

"  Only  because  I  know  Papa  will  wake  up  if  you  go 
on  whispering  like  a  —  steam-escape  valve  —  down 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  195 

there,"  she  said.  "  Go  away  and  wait  out  of  the 
light,  so  that  you  can't  be  seen,  and  I'll  come  in  two 
minutes  —  for  just  a  second." 

All  the  same  I  had  some  little  time  to  wait  before 
she  appeared,  got  up  in  some  pretty  silk  thing  with 
ribbons  on  it  and  looking  almost  as  she  did  in  the  day 
time.  (  Steel  curling  pins,  I  understand,  will  do  much 
in  ten  minutes,  if  you  can  endure  some  pain  in  a  good 
cause.)  She  came  straight  to  me  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees,  and  put  her  hand  in  mine  like  a  child.  The 
moonlight  and  the  magic  of  the  hour  seemed  almost  to 
have  transfigured  her :  she  shone  like  a  fairy  —  eyes, 
wavy  hair,  white  neck  and  arms  half  uncovered  by  the 
floating  gown,  white  teeth  that  glittered  as  she  smiled 
—  the  very  nails  on  her  little  fingers  were  sparkly  and 
starry  in  the  crystal  light,  and  her  step  was  almost  a 
dance. 

"  You  look  like  nothing  human  —  you  look  as  if  you 
would  spread  your  wings  and  fly  away  if  I  touched 
you,"  I  said. 

"  So  I  would,"  assented  the  sprite-like  figure,  illog- 
ically  leaving  its  hand  in  mine.  "  I  would  fly  with- 
out that  —  I  would  give  a  bit  of  my  soul  to  have 
wings  to-night.  Hugh,  do  you  ever  wish  —  on  moon- 
light nights  when  you  hear  the  sea  calling  as  it  some- 
times does  —  you  know  ?  " 

"  Aye,  I  know,"  said  I. 

"  Or  when  the  wind  that  gets  up  at  night,  and  blows 
down  from  the  mountains  and  the  wonderful  places 
where  no  one's  ever  been  —  when  that  wind  comes  in 
at  your  window,  waking  you  up,  and  whispering  to  you 


196  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

—  don't  you  long  to  go  and  follow  it,  away  under  the 
moon,  and  find  .  .  .  What  is  that  one  wants  to 
find,  Hugh?" 

"  Dear  girl,  if  I  could  tell  you  that,  I'd  be  able  to 
tell  you  what  all  the  God-forsaken  lot  of  us  gypsy  fel- 
lows have  wanted  to  know  ever  since  the  days  of 
Ulysses,  and  haven't  discovered  yet." 

**  Does  no  one  find  it,  Hugh  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  But  we  go  on  looking  —  and  on 
the  way,  we  find  new  countries  —  and  gold  —  and 
diamonds  —  and  Stephanies.  And  we  never  own  the 
countries,  and  the  gold  runs  through  our  hands.  But 
the  Stephanies — " 

"Well?"  The  small  hand  slid  very  softly  away 
from  mine,  and  the  dark  head  bent  down  till  I  could 
only  see  a  neck  and  a  coil  of  hair. 

"  The  Stephanies  —  we  keep,"  I  said,  and  lifted  her 
head  so  that  her  eyes  met  mine. 

"  You  promised  — !  " 

"  I  did,  and  I'm  keeping  my  promise,"  I  said.  "  But 
Stephanie  —  don't  you  think  this  thing  has  gone  on 
long  enough  ?  " 

"What  thing?  "  she  parried. 

"  This  —  tormenting,"  I  said,  letting  free  the  bird- 
like  little  head.  "  This  playing  fast-and-loose  —  and 
flirting  —  and  refusing  —  when  you  know — " 

"What?" 

She  had  drawn  deeper  into  the  shade,  and  I  could 
not  see  her  face,  but  the  laces  on  the  breast  of  her 
gown  were  fluttering  like  imprisoned  butterflies, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  197 

though  here,  in  the  shelter  of  the  tree,  there  was  not 
a  breath  of  wind. 

"  You  know,"  I  said,  scarcely  able  to  find  words, 
but  determined  to  have  it  out  once  for  all  — "  that  you 
will  have  to  marry  me." 

No  statue  could  have  been  stiller  —  save  for  that 
beating  of  the  light  laces  above  her  heart. 

"  It's  not  —  not  worthy  of  you,"  I  said.  "  It's  not 
the  best  in  you  that's  behaving  like  this,  Stephanie, 
it's  the  worst  —  the  nasty  little  streak  of  cruelty  that 
• —  women  all  have  it  — " 

I  stopped  for  want  of  breath,  and  then  went  on  — 

"  It  all  comes  to  this  —  when  are  we  to  be  mar- 
ried?" 

Dead  silence:  the  scent  of  the  lemon  blossoms 
heavy-sweet  above  our  heads:  very  far  away,  in 
the  dark  hill-ranges,  the  wood-cutter  bird,  that  wakes 
at  dead  of  night,  sounding  its  sharp  chip,  chip. 

Then  —  the  least  rustle  on  the  grass,  and  a  foot- 
step. .  . 

"  No,  you  don't !  "  I  said,  reaching  out  in  the  dusk 
of  the  lemon  tree,  and  filling  my  hands  with  cold  slip- 
pery silk,  and  something  warm  and  alive  inside  it. 
'  You've  got  to  answer  now  —  or  go,  and  never  come 
back." 

"  How  can  I  go  ?  "  asked  a  faint  whisper,  "  when 
you  are  holding  my  dress  —  and  me  ?  " 

I  loosed  her  and  stepped  back. 

"  Go  now,  if  you  wish,"  I  said,  "  but  if  you  do,  it's 
for  good.  This  has  got  to  come  to  an  end  one  way 


198  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

or  the  other.  What  do  you  think  I'm  made  of?  Say 
when  you'll  marry  me,  or  say  good-by.  I  can  stand 
that,  I  guess.  I  can't  stand  what  you've  been  giving 
me," 

"  You  know,"  said  something  invisible,  with  a 
shake  in  its  voice,  "  that  Papa  would  never  .  .  . 
never  .  .  ." 

"  You  may  leave  Papa  to  me.  Let's  keep  to  the 
point  for  once.  Is  it  good-by,  or  is  it  not  ?  " 

The  wood-cutter  bird  had  ceased,  and  the  night 
seemed  holding  its  breath.  The  five  great  jewels  of 
the  Southern  Cross  swung  low  among  the  leaves  of 
the  lemon  tree,  and  the  moon  was  almost  down. 
Where  had  the  moments  flown  to?  The  morning 
must  be  near. 

Somebody  was  sobbing  a  little  in  the  dark;  some- 
body was  stretching  out  soft  hands  round  the  trunk 
of  the  tree. 

"  It's  —  it's  not,"  said  Stephanie  close  at  my  side 
—  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

I  knew  better  than  to  break  my  promise  now,  though 
never  was  lover  more  sorely  tempted.  I  kept  my  arm 
about  her,  while  she  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder,  and 
cried  her  heart  out,  supported  by  the  strength  she 
loved.  It  was  all  her  girlish  life,  I  knew,  that  was 
flowing  away  on  that  flood,  all  the  old,  and  the  tried, 
and  the  dear :  the  familiar  faces,  and  the  England  and 
home  that  she  would  see  no  more  —  all  the  sweet 
solitude  that  girlhood  loves,  and  the  maiden  dream- 
flowers  that  spring  between  Diana's  crescent  moon, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  199 

but  never  blow  within  the  hard  gold  circle  of  the  wed- 
ding ring.  .  .  . 

The  storm  ended  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun.  My 
little  white  lady  stood  up  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
spoke  in  a  steady  tone. 

"  When  you  like,  Hugh  —  or  when  we  can  —  you 
know  there  will  be  trouble ;  but  we  won't  talk  of  that 
to-night." 

And  I  knew,  by  something  in  her  voice,  that  Ste- 
phanie, the  elf,  the  flirt,  I  should  see  no  more. 

A  great  wind  sprang  up  as  we  moved  towards  the 
house  again:  the  leaves  were  whirling  under  our  feet, 
and  it  was  dark  with  the  darkness  that  comes  at 
night's  ebb-tide. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  I  begged  — "  I  have  asked  so  often, 
and  you  never  would  say  —  did  you  see  me  —  those 
nights  when  I  saw  you  —  long  ago?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  now  grave  Stephanie.  "  I  saw 
you  —  every  night.  Your  face  had  a  ring  of  light 
round  it,  and  it  was  asleep.  But  when  I  looked  at  it, 
it  used  to  wake,  and  vanish  like  a  flash.  And  one 
night,  very  late,  when  I  had  been  alone  and  thinking, 
I  was  so  sorry  when  it  disappeared,  that  I  cried." 

"  I  saw  you  then,"  I  said.  "  I  saw  you  every  time. 
.  .  .  There's  sorcery  in  New  Guinea  —  the  air  is 
full  of  it.  .  .  .  I  could  believe  anything  might 
happen  here.  But  if  there  are  strange  powers,  good 
or  bad,  wandering  loose  in  this  queer  country,  they've 
worked  to  bring  us  together." 


200  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Oh,  no,  Hugh !  "  she  said,  shivering.  "  That 
would  mean  ill-luck." 

"  Ill-luck !  Don't  you  believe  it,"  I  answered. 
.  .  .  "  Isn't  it  time  to  break  my  promise  now  ?  " 

And,  getting  no  answer,  I  broke  it. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  get  in  and  sleep  well,  and  don't 
dream  of  devils,  or  if  you  do,  remember  that  all  the 
devils  in  Papua  and  hell  together  aren't  going  to  come 
between  you  and  me." 


CHAPTER  X 

/"~|~SHREE  days  later,  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Owen 
•*•  Stanley  Range.  This  is  not  the  tale  of  my 
gold-hunting  experiences.  If  it  were,  I  should  have 
a  strange  enough  story  to  relate.  But  no  one,  now, 
would  care  to  hear  how  I  found  a  wonderfully  good- 
paying  creek  up  in  the  unknown  ranges,  that  time  I 
went  bird-shooting  —  how  I  returned  to  it  secretly, 
after  winning  Stephanie's  promise  to  marry  me  — 
how  I  took  near  a  thousand  pounds  out  of  it  in  three 
weeks'  working  from  sunrise  to  dark,  and  got  back  to 
Port  Moresby  when  I  had  obtained  all  I  could  find 
at  the  time,  without  anyone  being  a  bit  the  wiser.  No 
one  would  care  to  hear  it  —  because  the  story  is  an 
old  one  now.  That  happened  which  does  not  happen, 
when  a  man  finds  good-paying  gold,  and  cannot  fol- 
low it  up.  The  birds  of  the  air,  or  the  natives  of  the 
hills,  "  carried  the  matter  "  eventually,  and  —  well, 
I  believe  there  are  quite  a  number  of  people  doing 
well  on  the  Kukurukufield  at  present.  But  the  dis- 
coverer is  not  one,  for  reasons  which  I  have  already 
mentioned. 

Garia  and  I  got  back  to  port  late  one  very  warm 
evening,  with  rain  low-hanging  in  a  purple  sky. 
Tararua,  you  may  be  sure,  was  at  hand  to  welcome 
her  lord's  return.  She  came  up  and  danced  in  front 

20 1 


202  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

of  Worboise's  cottage,  till  her  skirts  stood  out  in  a 
horizontal  circle  round  her  big  brown  limbs,  chanting 
all  the  while  in  a  loud,  brassy  voice  the  virtues,  ad- 
ventures and  manly  graces  of  Garia,  the  carriers  and 
myself.  And  the  way  that  loving  pair  rubbed  noses 
when  they  met,  was  enough  to  make  you  understand 
the  flatness  of  Papuan  features  once  and  for  all. 

I  had  hardly  patience  to  wait  until  they  had  let  go, 
before  I  deluged  Tararua  with  eager  inquiries  about 
Stephanie.  But  she  had  not  much  to  tell. 

"  Sinuabada  (the  chieftainess)  he  all  right,"  was 
the  gist  of  her  news.  "  Sometime  he  go  walk-about, 
look  out  along  mountain  he  tell,  '  Tararua,  you 
wantum  husband  belong  you,  you  sorry  he  go  ? '  I 
tell  — '  I  no  wantum  fleir'y,  wantum  little  fellow  bit/ 
Sinuabada  he  look  all  s;.:-ie  he  cly,  he  say — 'Long 
time  him  stop  away ! ' 

"Who?"  I  asked,  "Gam?" 

"  No  Garia,  Taubada  Lineti.  '  Long  time  he  stop/ 
Misi  Sefania  he  say  *  Too  much  —  long  time  — ' ' 

"  Tararua,  Misi  Sefania  doesn't  use  those  words," 
I  remonstrated. 

"  I  no  savvy  —  he  talk  strong,  he  breeve  all  same 
dat  — "  she  heaves  her  tattoed  bosom  in  a  tremendous 
sigh.  "  Sometime  I  go  look  out  along  track,  little  bit 
I  cly,  Misi  Sefania  he  say  — *  Tararua,  man  belong 
you,  man  belong  me,  he  long  way  away,  you  —  me 
all  same  sister/  I  tell  — *  Tararua  liking  you  flenty, 
you  good  along  Tararua/  By-'n'-by  Miss  Sefania,  me, 
been  little  bit  cly,  by-'n'-by  finish  cly,  walk  along  Gov- 
amen'  House,  Misi  Sefania  he  say  — '  You  no  tell/ 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  203 

he  give  me  free  stick  tombacco,  I  no  tell.  Misi  Sefania 
he  flighten  along  Govana,  Tararua  he  flenty  flighten 
along  Govana,  he  no  tell  nothing  all-a-time,  you  got- 
tum  tombacco  Tararua  ?  " 

Worboise  had  nothing  in  the  way  of  news  to  im- 
part, save  the  fact  that  Carolan  had  been  made  Chief 
Magistrate,  the  former  holder  of  that  post  having 
died  while  away  on  leave.  This  did  not  trouble  me  as 
it  might  have  done  a  little  earlier.  The  position  (vir- 
tually that  of  a  judge)  was  certainly  a  good  one  for  a 
young  barrister,  who  had  probably  had  no  very  rosy 
prospects  at  home  —  but  if  he  had  been  made  a  Gov- 
ernor-General of  Australia,  it  could  not  have  altered 
his  fortunes  or  mine,  on  the  point  where  they  clashed. 
Things  had  gone  a  long  way  beyond  that. 

I  met  Carolan  himself  next  morning,  when  I  was 
on  my  way  up  to  Government  House  in  full  daylight, 
to  face  out  His  Excellency,  and  demand  consent  to 
my  engagement.  Something  in  my  presence  there  at 
that  hour,  I  think,  or  possibly  something  in  the  festive 
character  of  my  dress  (I  don't  deny  that  I  have  the 
ugly  man's  weakness  for  a  bit  of  finery)  must  have 
told  the  new  Chief  Magistrate  what  my  errand  was, 
for  his  face  seemed  literally  to  turn  yellow  as  we 
neared  each  other,  under  the  historic  rubber  tree,  and 
I  could  see  his  throat  working  inside  his  collar  as  if 
he  were  going  to  choke.  I  don't  think  one  man  was 
ever  better  hated  by  another,  than  I  by  Carolan.  As 
for  me,  I  did  not  hate  him  at  all ;  in  truth,  I  rather 
prided  myself  on  the  fact  that  I  could  see  quite  a 


204  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

number  of  good  points  about  him.  He  was  certainly 
a  handsome  fellow,  with  his  well-groomed  black  hair, 
and  his  fine  brown  eyes,  and  his  straight  features  and 
neat  black  mustache  —  he  was  an  able  official,  and  a 
man  without  a  lazy  bone  in  his  body  —  he  had  the 
good  sense  to  be  very  fond  of  Stephanie,  and  the  de- 
cency not  to  tell  tales  about  a  successful  rival;  which, 
after  all,  he  might  easily  have  done,  if  he  liked.  And 
I  had  won  against  him  all  along  the  line,  and  I  was 
going  to  win  yet  a  good  deal  more  —  and  really,  I 
could  quite  afford  (I  felt)  to  be  patronizing  and  kind 
to  the  good  fellow,  Carolan,  in  spite  of  his  ugly  looks 
at  me. 

For  all  my  conceit,  for  my  patronage,  my  triumph, 
Fate  was  later  on  to  exact  a  full  and  bitter  penalty. 
No  shadow  of  this,  however,  fell  across  my  merry 
mood  of  the  morning,  as  I  went  on  my  way  to  demand 
and  win  my  own. 

I  checked  Carolan  in  his  walk  —  though  he  did  not 
look  as  if  he  wanted  to  stop  —  and  congratulated  him 
on  his  recent  promotion,  rather  with  the  air  of  a  mil- 
lionaire kindly  felicitating  a  poor  man  on  the  acquire- 
ment of  a  fortune  of  some  few  hundred  pounds. 

He  turned  yellower  than  ever  (no  one  turns  white 
in  New  Guinea,  the  climate  doesn't  allow  it)  and 
seemed  as  if  he  would  pass  on  without  reply.  Then 
suddenly  he  stopped. 

"  I  suppose  you're  going  to  ask  His  Excellency's 
consent,"  he  said,  without  preface,  his  eyes  so  full  of 
pain  the  while,  that  I  felt  somebody  or  other  ought  to 
be  sorry  for  him  —  as  one  feels  that  somebody  or 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  205 

other  ought  to  take  care  of  a  lost  dog  in  the  street  — 
no  business  of  one's  own,  but  still  it's  a  pity.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  since  you  ask  me,  I  am,"  I  said. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  he'll  say?  " 

"  Not  so  sure  of  that,"  I  answered,  with  a  smile 
that  meant  "  I  don't  much  care." 

"  And  you  mean,"  said  Carolan,  pulling  at  his  collar 
as  if  it  were  throttling  him,  "  you  mean  to  take  that 
girl  —  who  might  be,  ought  to  be,  a  duchess  —  and 
bury  her  in  a  tin  hut  in  the  New  Guinea  bush  —  a 
girl  just  out  of  the  schoolroom,  who  couldn't  possibly 
know  her  own'  mind  —  you've  entrapped  her,  and 
worked  on  her  feelings,  to  that  extent — " 

"  Steady  on,"  I  said.  "  What  you  mean  is  that 
I've  been  man  enough  to  make  her  love  me,  and  you 
haven't ;  but  I'd  advise  you  to  put  it  in  a  less  offensive 
way.  We  aren't  exactly  intimates,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  well  enough ! "  cried  Carolan, 
breathing  hard.  "  All  you  care  about  is  your  own 
damned  fancy  for  her.  .  .  .  I've  loved  her  for 
years  before  you  ever  knew  she  was  alive  —  and  came 
to  this  God- forsaken  hole  just  to  be  near  her  —  and 
kept  myself  from  speaking  because  I  cared  for  her 
too  much  to  do  it  till  I'd  something  worth  having 
to  offer  her.  I  ...  loved  her.  ...  I'd 
have—" 

He  seemed  about  to  choke  in  good  earnest,  or  to 
cry  —  I  didn't  know  which,  but  I  was  rather  sorry  for 
the  poor  devil,  so  I  got  out  my  pipe,  and  occupied 
myself  in  lighting  it,  to  give  him  time.  I  thought  it 
as  well  to  have  the  matter  out  then  and  there. 


206  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Do  you  —  do  you  think  you  deserve  her?  "  he  said, 
or  rather  gasped,  at  last. 

"  Why,  no,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  think  any  man  does 
or  could  —  so  it  may  as  well  be  me  as  another.  May 
I  ask  where  this  catechism  is  tending  to  ?  " 

"  It's  tending  to  this,"  said  Carolan,  who  was  grow- 
ing hotter  and  hotter,  "  that  I  advise  you  to  leave  her 
alone." 

"  You  advise  ?  You  do  ? "  I  said,  beginning  to 
smoke.  "  That's  rather  good,  you  know." 

"  You  —  you're  no  more  fit  to  tie  her  shoes  for  her 
than  —  than  —  a  nigger  — " 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  "  there's  enough  of  this. 
You've  sworn  at  me  once.  You've  insulted  me  more 
than  once.  You  know  I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  to  take 
much  more.  Only  for  her,  I'd  not  have  taken  as 
much.  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at,  or  what 
you  mean,  and  I  don't  want  to.  You  go.  You  go 
quick,  if  you're  wise." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know !  "  said  the  Chief  Magistrate, 
stepping  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  a  most  amazing 
way  —  as  if  he  would  and  he  wouldn't,  he'd  go  and 
he'd  stop  —  indecision  and  rage  at  war  upon  his  face. 
"  You  don't  know !  Well,  I  know.  I  know  a  good 
deal  about  you  —  a  d sight  more  than  you  — " 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said,  taking  off  my  helmet  with 
a  sweep,  and  walking  on.  If  I  had  stayed,  I  should 
have  caught  him  neck  and  crop,  and  slung  him  over 
the  fence,  in  just  about  ten  seconds  more,  and  it  was 
not  the  time,  or  the  place,  for  that  sort  of  justice.  I 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  207 

did  not  look  back  till  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
when  I  did  turn,  he  was  gone. 

As  for  his  talk,  I  minded  it  no  more  than  I  minded 
the  chattering  of  the  parrots  in  the  trees.  Those 
might  laugh  who  won,  and  those  might  weep  who 
lost  —  weep,  or  rage,  or  talk  mysterious  nonsense  — 
it  was  all  the  same  to  me. 

"Of  course,  you  knew  I  would  refuse,"  said  His 
Excellency. 

It  was  half  dusk  in  the  inner  room  where  we  were 
sitting;  there  were  no  windows,  and  the  light  that 
slanted  in  through  the  open  glass  door  was  filtered 
through  heavy  canvas  sun-blinds  lowered  all  along  the 
veranda,  to  shut  off  the  intolerable  glitter  of  the  sea. 
The  Governor's  study  was  painted  in  green;  its 
wooden  walls  were  hung  with  native  clubs  and  spears, 
scarce  distinguishable  in  the  dusk;  its  furniture  was 
of  the  plainest  —  just  a  writing-table  piled  high  with 
papers,  two  chairs,  and  a  bookcase.  At  the  table,  close 
to  the  glass  door,  sat  His  Excellency  dressed  in  smart- 
est white  from  collar  to  shoe-sole,  neat  and  imper- 
turbable as  ever,  and  perfectly  cool,  to  all  appearance, 
on  a  morning  hot  enough  to  fry  an  egg. 

A  man  who  has  walked  through  the  torrid  heat  of  a 
tropic  day  to  proffer  a  request  to  someone  sitting 
Olympically  apart  in  a  shaded  study,  is  at  a  marked 
disadvantage  —  as  hundreds  of  suitors  and  petitioners 
of  one  kind  and  another  have  been  made  to  feel,  in 
other  lands  than  New  Guinea.  Whatever  condition 


208  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

you  may  have  started  in,  you  are  sure  to  arrive  steam- 
ing at  every  pore,  your  clean  collar  drooping  like  a 
withered  lily,  your  white  shoes  smeared  with  dust, 
your  carefully  brushed  hair  composing  itself  into  a 
Tommy- Atkins  "  quiff  "  on  your  crimson  forehead. 
.  .  .  Out  of  the  glare  and  heat  you  come,  smelling 
of  sun  and  dust,  into  the  sanctuary  where  the  Other 
Man  sits  among  his  signs  of  office,  cool  and  calm  and 
unperturbed.  .  .  .  You  may  be  infinitely  the 
cooler  of  the  two,  in  the  sense  that  really  matters;  but 
you  don't  look  like  it,  and  he  does. 

It  may  have  been  some  consciousness  of  this  un- 
comfortable fact,  or  it  may  have  been  plain  common 
or  garden  nervousness,  but  I  found  it  harder  than  I 
could  have  believed  to  enter  upon  my  business,  after 
the  Papuan  orderly  had  ushered  me  into  the  study,  and 
withdrawn  his  black  halo,  and  blue  and  white  uniform 
tunic  to  the  veranda  outside  —  after  the  Governor 
had  greeted  me  politely,  offered  me  a  chair,  and  set 
himself  down  in  an  intolerably  wooden  attitude  upon 
his  own.  The  more  so,  because  I  knew  that  he  had 
guessed  my  business  at  once,  and  I  saw  that  he  was 
bent  on  using  every  advantage  he  possessed,  of  man- 
ner, self-possession,  or  position,  to  "  down  "  me  be- 
fore ever  I  opened  my  lips. 

If  he  had  not  been  Stephanie's  father,  and  some- 
what like  her,  I  should  have  resented  this;  but  my 
heart  was  soft  that  morning,  and  I  could  not  cherish 
dislike  towards  a  hard-faced  naval  officer  of  fifty,  ob- 
viously inclined  to  make  himself  disagreeable,  when 
the  carriage  of  his  head  and  the  shape  of  his  hands, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  209 

and  the  very  curve  of  his  eyebrows,  were  full  of  as- 
sociations unspeakably  moving  to  me.  I  suppose 
daughters  have  been  observed  to  resemble  their 
fathers  before  in  the  history  of  the  world,  but  the  fact 
that  a  young  girl  with  the  face  like  a  flower  could  be 
visibly  shadowed  forth  in  the  countenance  of  a  tough, 
middle-aged,  teak-hearted,  steel-eyed  sailor,  really 
seemed  to  me  a  sort  of  miracle  —  that  day.  And  cer- 
tainly, the  likeness  made  my  voice  humbler,  and  my 
speech  more  hesitating  than  I  had  pictured  either,  not 
very  long  before. 

I  can't  remember  the  words  I  used.  Who  can  re- 
call just  what  he  may  have  said,  in  a  moment  of 
strong  emotion?  There  is  a  temperature  of  the  mind 
at  which  the  metal  of  speech  is  fused.  Out  of  the 
mold  of  such  hours,  Fate,  the  great  artificer,  may  cast 
eternal  figures  of  sorrow  or  of  joy.  But  in  the  cast- 
ing, the  ingots  are  lost. 

I  remember  the  Governor's  reply.  It  was  as  I  have 
written. 

He  had  been  sitting  like  his  own  memorial  cut  in 
granite,  while  I  spoke  —  never  moving  a  finger-nail 
or  a  fold  of  his  clothes;  his  gray  eyes,  with  their 
small  inscrutable  pupils,  fixed  hard  upon  me  all  the 
time.  Only  an  Englishman,  and  an  official  English- 
man, can  sit  like  that.  I,  Celt  and  gypsy  through  and 
through,  use  gesture  freely  at  all  times  —  perhaps  I 
did  so  more  freely  than  usual  just  then  —  but  I  felt 
that  he  disliked  and  despised  it,  and  deliberately  chose 
to  underline  the  contrast  offered  by  his  own  immo- 
bility. 


210  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Of  course,  you  knew  that  I  should  refuse." 

Well,  I  had  known  it.  But  •  I  had  hoped  for,  I 
scarce  knew  what  discussion,  argument,  objection — • 
I  was  ready  for  all.  I  had  put  my  case  well  enough 
—  our  mutual  love;  my  capacity  for  making  a  good 
trove;  the  nine  hundred  and  odd  pounds  worth  of  gold 
dust  at  present  buried  under  the  floor  of  my  bedroom. 
I  had  offered  to  build  a  comfortable  home  in  Port 
Moresby,  and  let  Stephanie  live  near  her  father  during 
the  numerous  absences  I  should  no  doubt  find  neces- 
sary from  time  to  time.  I  had  put  forth  every  fact 
that  told  in  my  favor,  and  prepared  myself  to  com- 
bat every  possible  objection  that  might  be  raised. 
In  short,  I  was  wound  up  for  the  fray,  and  eager 
for  it. 

And  my  opponent  declined  even  to  unsheathe  his 
sword.  I  was  not  worth  so  much  as  that. 

It  cost  me  a  good  deal  to  say,  quietly  and  with  due 
restraint : 

"  I  did  know  it,  sir." 

The  Governor  maintained  his  position  unaltered. 
The  light  from  the  door  fell  on  his  sleek,  gray  hair, 
and  slanted  down  upon  the  well-kept  hands  that  lay 
crossed  on  the  table. 

"  Then,  may  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  to  what  I  am  in- 
debted for  the  honor  of  this  visit?  " 

If  I  had  not  seen  by  the  whitening  of  his  knuckles 
as  his  hands  pressed  down  on  one  another,  that  he  was 
really  beginning  to  weaken,  I  should  have  turned  my 
back  on  him  then  and  there,  and  slammed  his  inhos-- 
pitable  door  behind  me.  But  .  .  . 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  211 

A  man  who  lives  as  near  to  Nature  as  I  have  lived, 
has  curious  intuitions.  In  that  moment,  I  saw  clear 
through  the  wall  of  his  stony  demeanor,  as  if  it  had 
been  glass,  and  behind  it  crouched  the  figure  of  a  man, 
no  longer  young,  never  much  loved,  too  cold  for  sym- 
pathy, too  proud  for  fellowship,  unable  to  endure  de- 
feat, yet  momentarily  pushed  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
grip  of  that  dreaded  necessity. 

If  I  had  felt  the  weight  of  his  personality,  he  had 
assuredly  felt  the  weight  of  mine.  He  knew  that  he 
was  beaten.  He  knew,  as  well  as  if  I  had  said  it, 
that  his  consent  was  in  reality  a  dead  letter;  that  the 
silent,  bitter  sex  struggle  which  sets  the  father  against 
the  daughter's  suitor,  and  the  mother  against  the  wife 
of  her  son,  had  been  fought,  and  lost.  Youth,  once 
more,  was  to  be  served ;  age,  once  more,  was  to  swal- 
low defeat.  .  .  .  Yet  he  struggled  against  the  in- 
evitable ;  he  refused  to  know  that  he  was  beaten. 

This  passed  in  an  instant.  There  was  but  a  brief 
pause  before  I  answered,  hitting  straight  home: 

"  I  came  because  I  want  to  be  on  good  terms  —  if 
possible  —  with  my  wife's  father.  Now  you  have  it, 
sir." 

There  was  no  need  to  enlarge  on  that  "  if  possible." 
In  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a  girl  who 
is  of  age,  and  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind,  don't 
eat  out  their  hearts  and  wear  away  their  youth  waiting 
for  one  another,  simply  because  an  early-Victorian 
parent  chooses  to  deny  that  intangible  "  blessing  "  so 
dear  to  the  soul  of  the  novelist.  They  just  manage  to 
get  on  without  it,  and  the  story  closes  at  the  second 


212 

chapter,  which  would  not  do  at  all  in  a  three-hundred- 
page  novel,  but  is  quite  satisfactory  in  real  life. 

.  .  .  What  is  a  man  to  do,  who  cannot  give  in, 
and  must? 

Dead  silence  fell  on  the  room.  The  Governor's 
flinty  eyes  stared  at  me ;  his  hands  pressed  harder  than 
ever  on  one  another;  he  swallowed  in  his  throat,  but 
did  not  speak. 

"  Poor  old  devil !  "  my  thoughts  wandered.  "  Poor 
old  devil,  it's  going  to  be  rough  on  him.  .  .  . 
What  a  noise  the  wind  makes  in  those  palm-trees; 
you'd  think  it  was  rain,  if  you  didn't  know.  .  .  . 
One  of  the  little  red  king-birds,  that  note;  they  don't 
often  come  so  far  down.  .  .  .  Look  at  that  spider 
on  the  wall;  he'd  stretch  a  dinner-plate.  .  i  ;- 
Surely,  is  that  —  impossible !  —  by  Jove,  though,  it 
is!" 

There  was  a  rustle  of  drapery  along  the  veranda, 
a  pat-pat  of  quick  light  footsteps,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment a  cyclone  of  white  muslin  had  whirled  into  the 
room,  and  across  it,  and  the  Governor  was  enveloped 
in  something  like  a  breaking  wave. 

When  things  cleared  a  bit,  it  became  apparent  that 
Stephanie  was  sitting  on  her  father's  knee,  and  that 
her  arms  were  round  his  neck,  and  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  she  was  kissing  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  al- 
together too  much,  with  her  unhappy  lover,  whom  she 
starved  on  one  kiss  a  week,  looking  on!  And  she 
was  murmuring  and  coaxing  and  petting,  cooing  and 
beseeching,  in  a  way  fit  to  melt  the  heart  of  a  brass 
belaying-pin.  I  could  only  catch  a  stray  word  here  and 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  213 

there,  "Pappy  —  darling  Pappy!"  (kiss),  "Dearest 
Papa!"  (small  hand  cuddling  itself  coaxingly  round 
the  back  of  a  stiff  sunburnt  neck),  "Dear  Pappy,  I 
love  you!"  (brown  head  rubbed  up  and  down  a 
starched  coat  lapel),  "Darling,  do  be  good  to  Sep- 
pie!  " —  and  then  the  prettiest  of  baby  talk,  that  I  was 
almost  ashamed  to  hear,  charged  as  it  was  with  remi- 
niscences of  those  days  in  which  I  had  no  share  —  the 
days  that  were  the  father's  only.  After  all,  how 
very  few  were  the  years  since  this  promised  wife  of 
mine  had  been  a  little  child ! 

They  were  few  indeed  to  her  father's  heart,  in  that 
moment,  I  think.  The  soft  young  face  laid  so  close 
to  his  own  time-beaten  features  were  breaking  down 
his  resolution  inch  by  inch,  as  a  shattered  sea-wall 
crumbles  to  the  tide.  I  saw  his  head  bend  over  her 
brown  curls,  and  his  arms  close  tight  about  his  baby, 
as  if  to  hold  her  fast  against  the  world  —  and  then  — 
I  left  the  room  quietly,  and  went  out  on  to  the  ve- 
randa. They  did  not  see  me  go. 

Up  and  down  within  the  canvas  shades  I  walked, 
waiting  for  those  two  inside  to  make  an  end  of  their 
difference,  and  a  beginning  of  their  good-by.  There 
were  strange  thoughts  in  my  mind  —  thoughts  that 
had  never  so  much  as  neared  it  before.  The  world 
was  widening  fast.  ...  As  clearly  as  I  had  seen 
Stephanie  a  moment  before,  I  now  saw  another  Ste- 
phanie, somewhere  far  away  in  the  unknown  years  of 
the  coming  century;  and  she  had  brown  hair  with  a 
shade  of  red  in  it;  and  she  looked  at  me  with  Ste- 
phanie's blue  eyes  under  someone  else's  straight  heavy 


214  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

brows,  and  she  put  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  told 
me  she  was  going  away  from  me  —  going  for  always 
—  with  a  man  who  was  no  good.  .  .  . 

I  declare,  if  the  action  had  not  been  unthinkable,  I 
would  have  gone  to  the  Governor  then  and  there,  and 
told  him  that  I  gave  him  back  his  daughter.  But 
those  are  the  things  that  one  does  not  do.  I  only  went 
on  walking  up  and  down,  and  said  to  myself  as  I 
walked  — 

"  May  God  send  me  to  everlasting  torment  —  if 
there  is  a  God,  and  if  there  is  a  hell  —  should  I  fail 
to  take  care  of  her." 

When  I  went  back,  my  fiancee  and  her  father  were 
seated  apart,  looking  much  as  usual,  save  that  Ste- 
phanie's eyes  were  a  little  pink.  She  got  up  when  she 
saw  me. 

"  I'll  leave  you  together  —  you  will  want  to  talk," 
she  said,  escaping.  Tararua  was  waiting  on  the  ve- 
randa, having  that  moment  sprung  mysteriously  from 
nowhere.  Through  the  glass,  I  saw  Stephanie,  so  to 
speak,  collect  the  Papuan,  and  whisk  her  away,  with  a 
gesture  of  her  ringer,  and  then  the  black  and  the  white 
were  gone. 

The  Governor  addressed  me  at  once,  and  very 
courteously.  A  brave  man,  he  was  bravest  in  de- 
feat. 

"  I  can't  deny  my  daughter,  Mr.  Lynch,"  he  said. 
"  Especially  as  it  would  be  of  no  effect.  It  is  to  be  — 
as  you  wish.  ...  I  think  I'm  getting  old;  be 
patient  with  me  for  a  minute." 

He  put  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  leaned  on  his 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  215 

elbow,    collecting   himself    in   silence.     Presently    he 
looked  up. 

"  To  make  the  best  of  —  what  I  can't  call  a  good 
bargain  " —  he  said,  "  I  intend  to  help  you  into  a  some- 
what better  position.  It's  impossible  that  you  should 
go  on  picking  up  a  living  pearling  and  digging  and 
trading,  if  you  are  to  marry  my  daughter.  I  don't 
happen  to  fancy  your  personality,  Mr.  Lynch,  but  I 
believe  you  are  the  right  kind  of  man  to  break  in  a 
rough  country,  and  I  am  short  of  Resident  Magis- 
trates, so  —  I  am  prepared  to  appoint  you  to  the 
charge  of  the  Eastern  Division.  You  can  live  at 
Samarai  in  a  decent  house,  and  go  out  on  patrol  with 
your  police  as  often  as  necessary,  leaving  Stephanie 
safe  at  home.  The  salary  is  four  hundred;  in  this 
country,  you  can  live  on  that.  I  will  allow  my  daugh- 
ter something  if  I  can,  but  I  am  comparatively  a  poor 
man  myself,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here.  You  can  use 
your  —  gold  — "  the  phrase  seemed  to  stick  in  his 
throat  — "  to  furnish  the  house :  the  Government  will 
provide  you  with  a  cutter,  and  you  can  have  police 
orderlies.  There  are  a  fair  number  of  white  people 
in  the  East  End  now ;  she  won't  be  without  society  — 
of  a  kind.  If  the  natives  chance  to  get  you  on  your 
patrols  —  they're  a  bad  lot  about  the  D'Entrecasteaux 
and  Milne  Bay  —  she  could  come  back  to  me,  and  I 
would  look  after  her  and  any  —  others  —  there  might 
be." 

I  broke  in  with  thanks  for  his  kindness,  and  a  word 
or  two  as  to  what  I  hoped  I  could  do  with  the  ap- 
pointment —  which  indeed  gratified  me  very  much, 


216  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

for  a  Papuan  "  R.  M."  is  a  little  king  in  his  own  do- 
main, and  the  exploring  and  fighting  likely  to  be  pro- 
vided by  the  Eastern  Division  were  entirely  to  my 
taste.  His  Excellency  waited  till  I  had  done,  and 
then  went  on  as  if  I  had  not  spoken: 

"  You  had  better  go  down  to  Australia  for  a  little 
while  on  your  marriage  —  she  will  be  the  better  of  a 
change,  and  you  will  have  the  furniture  to  buy.  You 
can  have  the  Merrie  England  to  travel  in  —  I  was  in- 
tending to  send  her  shortly  in  any  case,  with  de- 
spatches. I  can't  leave  the  Eastern  Division  without 
a  magistrate  much  longer,  so  I  suppose  it  will  have  to 
be  —  soon." 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I'm  sure  you  will  excuse  me  now,  Mr.  Lynch. 
It's  tiring  weather,  and,  as  I  said  —  I  grow  old." 

We  had  shaken  hands,  and  I  was  out  on  the  ve- 
randa again,  and  the  glass  door  was  shut  behind  me, 
and  the  blind  was  drawn.  Middle  age  was  alone  with 
itself  and  its  sorrow.  The  curtain  had  risen  on  the 
drama  of  Youth. 

Of  course,  I  found  Stephanie  waiting  for  me  in  the 
sitting-room;  and,  of  course,  I  made  her  pay  me  lib- 
erally for  the  envy  and  jealousy  she  had  aroused  that 
morning.  When  she  had  scolded  me  for  untidying 
her  curls  and  her  laces  (I  liked  nothing  better  than  to 
have  her  scold  me,  and  I  think  she  knew  it)  and  when 
she  had  prinked  and  preened  at  the  glass  a  little,  we 
came  on  other  and  graver  matters.  We  were  in  a 
cool  inner  room,  shut  away  from  light  and  heat,  and 
I  was  fanning  her  while  I  talked. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  217 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  *'  that  your  father  is  going 
to  lend  us  the  Merrie  England?  " 

"What  for?"  asked  Mademoiselle,  lying  back  in 
her  hammock  chair,  and  playing  with  a  cluster  of  but- 
terfly orchids  she  had  fastened  into  the  bosom  of  her 
dress. 

"  To  go  down  to  Brisbane  in,  when  we  are  mar- 
ried." 

Stephanie  made  a  face.  I  should  as  soon  have  ex- 
pected a  lily  of  the  valley  to  make  faces,  sometime 
before,  but  the  human  nature  of  my  moonlight  lady 
was  becoming  more  apparent  now. 

"  Why,  the  Merrie  England  is  going  down  in  about 
three  weeks !  " 

"  So  I  believe." 

"  Then  that  settles  it,  of  course  —  it's  far  too  soon." 

"  Is  it  ? "  I  asked,  dropping  the  fan,  because  my 
hands  were  otherwise  occupied.  "Is  it,  Stephanie?" 

Well,  well!  who  is  going  to  tell  what  he  says,  on 
such  an  occasion  as  this?  I  shall  tell  what  she  said, 
instead. 

".     .     .     Impossible." 

"...  I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  about 
it." 

".  .  .  We  couldn't,  I  couldn't,  it  couldn't  — 
there!" 

".  .  .  Not  the  least  sorry  —  for  anyone  so 
silly." 

".     .     .     No,  no,  no,  no,  no !  " 

How  can  I  speak  when  you're  — " 

".     .     .     Hugh,  stop!" 


218  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

".  .  .  Oh,  I'll  say  anything  —  let  go,  you  croco- 
dile!" 

".     .     .     I'll  think  about  it  —  perhaps — " 

".  .  .  Well,  then,  I  will  —  go  away,  please,  im- 
mediately —  I've  had  a  great  deal  more  than  enough 
of  you  this  morning." 

"  I'm   going,"    I    said,    taking   up   my   sun-helmet 
"But  Stephanie—" 

"Well?"     She  was  half  way  through  the  door. 

"  Tell  me  —  how  did  you  manage  to  act  the  angel- 
in-the-machine  just  at  the  right  moment?  Were  you 
—  listening?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not,"  said  His  Excellency's  daugh- 
ter, with  icy  dignity.  "  How  can  you  ask  such  a 
thing?" 

"  I  ask  because  miracles  don't  often  happen,  in  New 
Guinea  or  elsewhere,"  said  I  coolly. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Stephanie,  quite  through  the 
door  now,  and  putting  back  her  head  into  the  room, 
*  I  didn't  listen,  of  course,  but  — " 

"What?" 

"  Tararua  was  — " 

"Where?" 

"  Under  the  floor.  Do  you  think  you're  invisible, 
walking  up  the  hill  in  a  white  suit,  at  eleven  in  the 
morning?  " 

As  she  made  herself  invisible  directly,  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  go,  and  I  went. 

When  does  joy  or  sorrow  meet  us  with  the  face 
that  we  had  pictured?  Stephanie's  father  had  con- 
sented. Stephanie  had  given  in  to  an  early  marriage. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  219 

Three  weeks  would  see  us  made  one,  and  sailing 
south  to  Paradise,  in  the  Merrie  England.  Only  a 
little  while  ago,  I  should  have  thought  that  my  heart 
would  burst  with  happiness,  were  such  a  cornucopia 
of  good  fortune  to  be  poured  out  upon  a  single  day. 
But  someone  has  to  pay  for  everybody's  joy;  and  I 
had  seen  the  price  that  two  had  had  to  pay  for  mine. 
It  was  a  tempered,  almost  a  grave  happiness  that  I 
bore  away  with  me  that  morning,  though 

"  Never  yet  so  sweetly  ran  my  blood, 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wished  for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good." 


CHAPTER  XI 

/"T"SHE  news  of  my  good  fortune  spread  all  over 
•*•  Port  Moresby  and  the  surrounding  country,  in  a 
day  or  two.  Lynch  was  to  marry  the  Governor's 
daughter.  Lynch  had  cut  out  Carolan,  the  Chief 
Magistrate  who  was  first  cousin  to  an  Earl,  and  had 
enough  of  a  "  pull "  at  home  to  make  him  sure  of 
being  Governor  himself  some  day.  Lynch  was  to  be 
made  "  R.  M."  of  the  Eastern  Division.  Lynch  was 
to  have  the  loan  of  the  Government  steam  yacht,  to  go 
down  to  Brisbane  for  the  honeymoon.  Lynch,  in 
fine,  was  on  the  top  of  the  wave  of  prosperity,  float- 
ing ahead  at  a  rate  that  amazed  everyone  who  knew 
him,  but  none  more  than  himself. 

Of  course  Lynch  was  popular  under  these  circum- 
stances, though  he  had  never  been  hail-fellow-well-met 
with  the  Port  Moresby  crowd  at  any  time  —  witness 
the  fact  that,  in  a  land  where  every  man  was  known 
familiarly  as  Tommy  This,  Jack  That,  Bill  the  Other, 
his  Christian  name  was  allowed  to  rest  in  obscurity, 
except  so  far  as  Worboise  was  concerned.  But  then 
Worboise  was  my  "  mate  " —  a  word  that  means  much 
to  those  who  live  under  the  Southern  Cross. 

Did  I  enjoy  this  sudden  burst  of  popularity  —  the 
eagerness  to  treat  at  the  "  hotel,"  the  number  of  new 
intimates  who  came  in  the  evenings  to  pass  an  hour 

220 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  221 

with  Worboise  and  myself  —  the  ready  smiles  and 
hand-shakes  of  the  Government  officials,  who  hitherto 
had  scarcely  seemed  aware  of  my  existence?  No. 

It  was  not  because  I  felt  the  whole  affair  was  more 
or  less  hollow  —  most  popularity  is  that,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it.  It  was  because  my  pride  was 
hurt  —  doubly  hurt,  in  that  everyone  seemed  to  re- 
gard me  as  suddenly  raised  in  the  social  scale,  whereas 
I  had  self-respect  enough  to  think  myself  no  less  a 
man  than  the  Governor,  outside  his  official  standing 
—  and  in  the  fact  that  I  was  to  owe  considerable  ad- 
vantage to  my  wife. 

Rather,  much  rather,  on  the  whole,  would  I  have 
kept  her  in  my  own  way,  had  that  been  possible.  The 
advantages  of  the  "  R.  M. "-ships  were  many,  but  it 
carried  its  penalties  too.  Still,  the  matter  was  settled, 
and  who  was  I,  to  complain  that  Fortune's  gifts 
weighed  over  heavily? 


I  find  myself  unable  to  write  much  about  those 
brief  weeks  of  our  engagement.  It  is  all  nonsense 
to  say  that  "  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  be- 
fore." They  don't  —  a  man  whose  life  has  had  as 
many  events  in  it  as  mine  knows  that.  But  when 
one  is  living  over  past  days  in  thought,  events  do  cast 
their  shadows,  so  strongly  that  one  can  see  little  else 
but  the  foreboding  shadow.  Those  few  weeks  were 
happy,  but  I  cannot  think  of  them  as  happy  now, 
remembering  to  what  they  led. 


222  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Th.e  days  and  nights  ran  by  —  suns  rose  above  the 
purple  Astrolabe,  and  set  beneath  Port  Moresby  Bay, 
in  all  the  unimaginable  splendor  of  New  Guinea  skies 
and  seas.  The  mangoes,  pendent  on  long  string-like 
stalks  beneath  huge  domes  of  fiery  green,  began  to 
swell  and  ripen;  the  great  dark  forest  trees,  with  the 
pale  heliotrope-colored  flowers,  were  putting  forth 
their  poignantly-scented  bloom.  It  was  at  the  break 
of  the  seasons:  the  burning  days  were  close  upon  us 
now.  When  they  came, —  when  those  fast-ripening 
fruits  were  dropping  from  the  stem,  and  the  flamboy- 
ant flowered,  and  the  f rangipanni  was  all  white  — 
Stephanie  and  I  would  not  be  there  to  see.  We 
should  be  dreaming  side  by  side  on  the  deck  of  the 
Merrie  England,  under  the  shady  awning,  watching 
the  peridot  greens  and  enamel  blues  of  the  Great  Bar- 
rier Reef  grow  pale  beneath  the 

"  Orange  sunset  waning  low  " 

—  seeing  the  fivefold  jewel  of  the  Southern  Cross 
light  up  above  the  long  dark  Queensland  shore,  and 
the  sea-fires  spray  about  our  shearing  bows,  and  the 
fairy  coral  islands,  all  around  our  track,  spread  coasts 
of  ivory  and  pearl  beneath  the  silver  moon.  .  .  . 
A  sailor's  honeymoon,  in  truth  —  a  sailor's  dream  of 
Paradise. 

The  days  went  by.  It  was  the  week  before  the 
wedding  now,  and  Stephanie  was  never  to  be  found 
without  a  needle  in  her  hand,  when  I  went  to  see  her, 
and  mysterious  cocoons  of  rufflings  and  frillings 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  223 

seemed  to  involve  the  whole  of  Government  House, 
and  almost  escape  down  the  avenue.  My  bride  was 
just  a  little  nervous  and  a  little  fretful,  too,  and  the 
days  when  she  kept  me  on  short  commons  of  kind 
words  were  more  numerous  than  the  days  when  she 
called  me  pretty,  mischievous  names  of  her  own  de- 
vising, and  coquetted  with  me  on  the  veranda  steps, 
coming  and  going,  after  her  own  inimitable  fashion. 
I  took  the  bitter  and  the  sweet  alike,  and  did  not  com- 
plain. I  could  afford  to  be  patient. 

The  days  went  on.  Now  it  was  the  day  before  the 
wedding,  and  Worboise,  whose  exultation  had  been 
unspeakable  from  the  beginning,  was  going  about  chok- 
ing and  chuckling  to  an  extent  that  almost  suggested 
incipient  apoplexy.  When  the  evening  came,  nothing 
would  do  him  but  he  must  let  loose  the  sentiment  with 
which  he  was  brimming  over,  by  reading  aloud  to  me 
extracts  from  the  idiotic  novels  he  kept  in  huge  accu- 
mulations under  his  bed.  I  could  not  prevent  him  from 
selecting  the  treacliest  bits  of  these,  and  giving  them 
out  with  a  tearful  quiver  in  his  fat  voice  that  nearly 
drove  me  insane.  It  was  a  moonlight  evening  with 
a  fresh  wind ;  I  remember  every  palm  about  the  house 
was  a  tossing  fountain  of  silver,  and  the  coral  beach 
below  the  house  shone  like  a  marble  floor.  A  night 
on  which  no  man  with  the  wild  drop  in  his  blood 
could  rest  quiet  in  a  house,  even  had  it  not  been 
that  "  white  night  "of  sleeplessness  and  nervous  ten- 
sion that  is  the  usual  forerunner  of  a  wedding-day. 

And  on  such  a  night  as  this,  my  mate  sat  at  the 
table,  within  range  of  the  heat  and  reek  of  the  dirty 


224  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

kerosene  lamp,  reading  from  "  The  Martyrdom  of 
Marguerite." 

"  'Erbert,  my  'eart  is  yours  and  yours  alone.  The 
'oly  vows  that  I  have  vowed  stand  for  hever  be- 
tween you  and  me,  but  think  not,  though  separated 
far  from  thee,  the  'eart  of  Marguerite  can  wax  cold 
to  'im  she  loves.  We  meet  no  more  on  hearth,  but 
ho  my  'Erbert,  in  'eaven  — " 

"  It  fair  turns  me  inside  out,"  broke  off  Worboise, 
feeling  for  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "  Lovers  partin' 
like  that  —  and  the  beautiful  language.  .  .  .  Did 
she  ever  use  language  like  that  to  you,  Hugh  ?  " 

"  Why  the  —  why  should  she  ?  "  I  said  irritably. 
"  She's  not  going  to  be  a  nun,  and  go  off  into  a  con- 
vent by  mistake ;  not  much." 

"  I  mean  them  sweet  things  about  'earts  never  wax- 
in'  cold,  an'  such  like,"  said  Worboise,  wiping  his 
eyes  unashamedly.  "  It's  lovely  writin' :  it  fair  — " 

"  Taubada,  two  fellow  sailor  belong  Merrie  Eng- 
land he  come,"  interrupted  Garia,  who  was  strapping 
up  my  steel  trunk  on  the  veranda. 

"  Are  you  sending  your  things  to-night  ?  "  asked 
Worboise,  dropping  down  from  the  clouds.  "  Let 
me  go  and  see  to  them  for  you;  I'll  get  them  stowed 
convenient  —  and  I'd  like  to  do  what  I  can  for  you 
at  the  last,  boy,  even  if  it  ain't  much." 

It  sounded  more  like  an  offer  to  help  with  funeral, 
than  with  wedding  arrangements ;  however,  I  accepted 
it  gratefully,  for  I  was  thirsting  to  be  alone.  Wor- 
boise and  the  sailors  went  off  down  the  track  with  my 
modest  luggage,  and  I  left  the  house,  and  tramped 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  225 

away   down   the   shore   in   the   moonlight,    breathing 
freely  at  last. 

It  was  growing  late  when  I  came  back,  but  I  found 
Worboise  still  away  —  at  the  hotel,  I  had  no  doubt, 
drinking  my  health  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Garia 
was  on  the  veranda,  thoughtfully  licking  powdered 
lime  off  the  spatula  of  his  betel-chewing  outfit. 

"  You  can  go  home  now,"  I  said. 

"  I  go,  Taubada,"  he  answered,  slinging  back  the 
decorated  gourd,  with  its  boar-tusk  stopper,  and  paus- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  veranda.  "  Taubada — " 

"Well?" 

"To-morrow,  you  marry  Misi  Sefania?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow." 

Garia's  eyes  sparkled  with  interest. 

"  How  mut'  you  pay  for  him  ?  " 

"  All  I've  got,  Garia." 

"  E  —  e,  Taubada,  I  think  you  pay  too  mut'. 
Plenty  gold  you  got,  flenty  frying-pan,  close,  boot, 
tin-meat,  cartridge  —  too  mut'  for  pay  one  girl." 

"  But  I'm  not  paying  in  frying-pans  and  boots, 
Garia,  I'm  paying  in  something  else." 

"What  you  pay?" 

"  I  pay  thing  I  call  heart,  and  she  pay  all  same." 

"  I  no  savvy  that-fellow  talk.  Misi  Sefania,  he  got- 
tum  heart  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  gives  it  to  me." 

"  All  same  big  you  giving?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  —  don't  worry,"  I  said.  The 
conversation  had  begun  to  irritate  me:  I  thought  I 
had  better  get  in  and  try  for  some  sleep. 


226  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  There,  go,"  I  said.  "  Go  home  to  Tararua,  and 
turn  up  early  in  the  morning."  And  I  went  in. 

"  All  same  big.  .  .  ."  The  words  haunted  me. 
O  Stephanie,  further  removed  from  me  now  than  the 
stars  from  the  lonely  earth  —  Stephanie,  dainty  Dres- 
dan  china  lady  of  a  dream  —  was  the  pretty  "  pate 
tendre  "  heart  you  gave  to  me  in  truth  "  all  same  big  " 
as  the  red,  warm,  living  heart  I  gave  to  you? 

"There  she  is!" 

Something  climbed  up  into  my  throat  with  a  lump, 
and  I  felt  my  breath  begin  to  go  faster.  It  was 
going  fast  enough  already.  I  had  been  standing  be- 
side the  draped  kitchen  table  that  represented  an  altar, 
in  the  tiny  Mission  Church,  for  full  fifteen  minutes, 
under  a  raking  fire  of  eyes  from  every  white,  and 
most  of  the  half-castes,  in  Port  Moresby;  and  nerves 
which  I  had  never  suspected  myself  to  possess  were 
quivering  into  disagreeable  activity.  The  little  box 
of  a  building  —  scarce  larger  than  a  suburban  draw- 
ing-room—  was  decorated  with  stiflingly  sweet  gar- 
lands of  frangipanni.  The  sky  outside  was  hard  and 
fiercely  blue.  It  was  one  of  New  Guinea's  "  diamond 
days,"  when  everything  scintillates  and  stares,  and  the 
sun-rays  strike  like  a  blow.  .  .  .  Hot?  I  loos- 
ened my  torturing  collar  for  the  twentieth  time,  and 
helplessly  regarded  the  collapsing  freshness  of  my  best 
white  suit.  The  stephanotis  in  my  buttonhole,  plucked 
from  the  veranda  but  an  hour  before,  was  drooping 
like  a  melted  wax  candle.  Entrican,  the  missionary, 
standing  close  at  hand,  seemed  almost  ready  to  faint 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  227 

beneath  the  weight  of  his  black  clerical  suit,  and  hand- 
kerchiefs were  hard  at  work  mopping  crimson  faces, 
all  over  the  church. 

If  any  reminiscence  crossed  my  mind  of  another 
wedding-day  only  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  Chalmers, 
at  that  time  in  charge,  had  married  me  in  his  own 
parlor  to  a  black  Papuan  bride,  I  put  it  away  easily 
enough.  That  was  done  with  —  done  with  —  buried 
deep  beneath  fifty  fathom  of  coral  seas,  it  and  all  its 
consequences.  As  for  calling  it  a  marriage  —  why, 
in  the  sight  of  heaven  (if  there  be  a  heaven)  it  was 
no  marriage  at  all,  whatever  earthly  laws  might  say. 
This,  and  this  only,  was  my  true  marriage  day. 

Every  head  was  turned  to  the  door.  A  susurrus 
of  whispers  ran  through  the  church  as  a  breaking 
wave  runs  along  a  beach.  The  natives  outside  began 
to  cackle  excitedly.  .  .  .  She  was  coming. 

Stephanie,  Stephanie,  lost  star  of  my  life,  if  ever 
bride  looked  like  an  angel  new-fallen  from  the  sky, 
so  you  looked,  entering  under  the  arch  of  frangipanni 
blossom  that  day  —  your  sweet  face  spirit-pale  be- 
neath floating  mist  of  white,  your  dark  silk  eyelashes 
lying  low  on  the  delicate  cheek ;  your  cloud-like,  wing- 
like  dress  floating  to  right  and  left  as  you  moved;  in 
those  little,  little  hands  of  yours  the  cluster  of  white 
bush-lilies  I  had  sent  you.  .  .  .  O,  what  was  I, 
to  deserve 

"  So  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint ! " 

Her  father  was  with  her,  but  I  saw  no  more  of  him 
than  a  gray-and-white  blur  somewhere  in  Stephanie's 


228  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

neighborhood.  I  did  not  see  the  crowd  now,  nor  the 
missionary,  nor  the  altar,  nor  the  fierce  blue  sky  that 
burned  at  the  windows,  nor  the  gray-green,  wander- 
ing ringers  of  the  eucalyptus  trees  outside.  I  saw 
only  one  thing,  and  that  was  the  face  of  Stephanie  — 
my  Stephanie,  at  last. 

The  service  began.  The  Governor  gave  his  daugh- 
ter away  without  any  sign  of  emotion,  but  his  eye 
was  fixed  on  me  as  he  spoke,  and  I  read  somewhat  of 
a  threat  in  it. 

"  No  fear,  gray  man ! "  I  thought.  "  You  could 
not  be  harder  on  me  than  I  should  be  on  myself,  if  I 
brought  the  shadow  of  a  shade  of  a  grief  on  a  hair 
of  her  head.  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  The  ring?  It  was  ready.  No  best  man, 
no  bridesmaid,  was  at  this  marriage,  but  none  was 
needed.  It  was  I  myself  who  slipped  the  glove  off 
the  little  hand  at  the  right  moment  —  how  cold  those 
delicate  fingers  were,  for  all  the  heat  of  the  day !  — • 
and  I  who  took  the  bouquet  quietly  away,  and  laid  it 
down  on  the  table.  Whatever  I  had  been  before,  I 
was  not  nervous  now. 

We  knelt  together;  it  was  over,  all  but  the  bless- 
ing. My  little  bride  had  been  trembling  so  that  I 
almost  feared  she  would  faint,  all  through  the  cere- 
mony, and  if  her  father  and  myself  and  the  mission- 
ary heard  the  timid  responses  that  barely  moved  her 
lips,  certainly  no  one  else  did.  But  she  was  calm  and 
quiet  now  —  the  attitude  of  prayer  had  lifted  her  pure 
heart  to  heaven,  from  which  it  was  never  far  away, 
and  the  words  of  blessing  seemed  to  fall  like  dew 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  229 

upon  her  soul.  I,  seeing  and  hearing  nothing  in  the 
ceremony  but  a  pursy  black-coated  parson  reciting 
antiquated  mummeries  for  a  certain  number  of 
pounds,  could  yet  read  her  mind  clearly  enough  to 
follow  its  workings,  and  if  a  man's  soul  can  laugh 
and  cry  together,  mine  assuredly  did. 

"  At  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  (Stephanie)  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old." 

Well,  she  should  always  have  her  legends,  as  many 
and  as  old  as  she  liked  —  I  was  not  marrying  her 
to  deny  her  anything  she  fancied. 

We  rose,  and  turned  to  walk  down  the  tiny  aisle 
together.  Port  Moresby  had  lifted  its  head  from  the 
book-rests,  and  abandoned  its  colorable  imitation  of 
kneeling,  and  was  sitting  up,  staring  like  one  man. 
Worboise,  in  the  front  seat,  looking  horribly  fat  in 
a  borrowed  khaki  suit  much  too  small  for  him,  was 
wiping  his  eyes  and  nose  with  a  purple  "  trade " 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  sniffing  more  than  was  nec- 
essary. The  odor  of  the  flowers  was  stifling;  I  shall 
never  smell  frangipanni  again  without  seeing  it  all  — 
the  white  coats  and  red  faces,  the  bare  brown  wooden 
walls,  the  pattern  of  the  pandanus  mats  on  the  floor, 
the  narrow  arch  of  the  doorway,  giving  on  the  palms 
and  the  pink  oleanders,  and  the  green  and  blue  of  the 
sea  .  .  .  the  sea,  where  very  far  away  one  tiny, 
white  seed-pearl  of  evil  gleamed  out,  just  as  we  left 
the  church. 

"Do  you  see  the  little  sail?"  was  the  first  thing 
Stephanie  said. 


230  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  see  it,"  I  answered.  "  A  fair 
wind  and  a  prosperous  voyage,  for  her  and  us !  Let's 
hope  it's  a  good  omen." 

"  But  it's  not  a  fair  wind  for  her,  with  that  north- 
wester; you  should  choose  your  omens  better,  Hugh." 

"  Neither  it  is,"  I  said  carelessly,  "  I  withdraw  the 
comparison;  she  won't  be  in  port  for  another  two 
hours,  and  we're  in  port  now,  aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  What  is  she,  I  wonder  ? "  asked 
my  bride,  pausing  on  her  way  down  the  narrow  coral 
path  to  the  buggy  that  was  waiting  below. 

"  Some  trading  cutter,  I  suppose.  Look  out  for 
your  skirt  on  those  thorns,  dearest,  and  come  along; 
the  sun's  risky  without  a  hat.  ...  In  with  you; 
I'll  pull  up  the  hood.  I  suppose  the  others  will  walk." 

"  Why,  of  course ! "  said  Stephanie,  bubbling  over 
with  laughter.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  this 
is  the  only  wheeled  vehicle  in  New  Guinea !  " 

Nothing  could  have  been  quieter  than  the  break- 
fast—  only  the  Governor,  Stephanie  and  myself, 
Worboise,  the  missionary,  and  some  dozen  officials 
and  traders,  were  present,  waited  on  by  Garia  and 
the  houseboys.  Carolan  was  not  among  the  guests; 
he  had  left  Port  Moresby  some  weeks  earlier,  to  try 
cases  at  the  East  End,  and  had  not  returned. 

The  Governor  made  a  short,  stilted  speech  of  the 
most  conventional  kind;  I  answered  in  half-a-dozen 
sentences,  being,  like  Mr.  Sleary  of  the  horse-riding, 
"  not  much  of  a  cackler  "  at  any  time.  I  knew  that 
Worboise  would  make  a  speech,  and  trembled  at  the 
thought;  however,  it  was  by  no  means  so  bad  as  I 


231 

had  feared,  when  it  came.  The  good  old  fellow  began 
with  a  rather  absurd  panegyric  of  myself,  which,  to 
my  utter  astonishment,  brought  forth  loudly  assenting 
claps  and  stamps  from  the  other  men.  ...  So 
I  had  "builded  better  than  I  knew,"  in  Papua,  and 
they  really  liked  me,  after  all! 

I  feared  the  inevitable  anthropophagic  anecdote 
would  thrust  its  head  up  by  and  by;  but  luckily, 
champagne  and  emotion  overcame  my  mate  before 
he  got  so  far,  and  he  collapsed  into  his  seat,  on  the  very 
apex  of  a  touching  description  of  Stephanie's  beauties 
and  virtues,  delivered  with  infinite  feeling,  and  with- 
out a  single  h.  After  which,  we  all  fell  to  upon  the 
fresh  turtle  soup,  and  fatted  fowls,  and  the  tarts 
and  blanc  manges,  and  the  roast  hind-quarters  of 
wallaby,  and  the  giant  Gaura  pigeons,  one  each  to  a 
pie,  and  the  mango  salad  and  stewed  paw-paws,  and 
all  the  other  delicacies  provided  by  His  Excellency's 
native  cook. 

When  the  festivities  began  to  languish,  Stephanie 
disappeared  with  Tararua,  and  came  back  before  very 
long  in  the  prettiest  of  cotton  traveling  dresses  — 
blue,  or  pink,  or  red,  or  some  color  of  that  kind  — 
trimmed  with  things,  and  hung  with  things,  and  look- 
ing very  nice.  She  had  a  hat,  too,  with  other  things 
on  it,  and  a  parasol,  and  Tararua  was  carrying  her 
dressing-bag.  It  was  clear  that  the  time  had  come. 

In  effect,  there  was  Ogi,  the  coxswain  of  the  whale- 
boat  crew,  standing  on  the  threshold,  his  immense 
head  wreathed  with  a  perfect  garden  of  ferns  and 
flowers,  and  his  muscular  brown  limbs  all  braceleted 


232  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  ankleted  with  colored  leaves.  Behind  him,  the 
blue  sea  burned,  empty  and  still,  save  for  the  white 
hull  of  the  Merrie  England  lying  long  and  low  at 
her  anchorage,  out  in  the  bay,  and  the  Governor's 
boat,  with  its  awning  up,  clinging  to  the  jetty  inshore. 
The  little  seed-pearl  of  the  distant  sail  was  no  more 
to  be  seen. 

They  drank  our  health  again,  and  they  cheered  us, 
and  they  pelted  Stephanie  and  me  with  all  the  flowers 
from  the  table,  as  we  passed  down  the  narrow  steps 
of  the  veranda,  out  into  the  fierce  gold  sun.  The 
Governor  came  with  us  to  the  boat;  the  wedding 
guests  remained,  and  hung  over  the  veranda  rails, 
shouting,  waving  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  hurraying, 
until  we  were  below  the  slope  on  the  hill.  My  last 
sight  of  the  house  was  a  vision  of  white  flapping 
sleeves  and  crimsoned  faces,  crowding  the  rail  till  it 
looked  like  the  side  of  a  ship  leaving  port,  and  the 
last  I  heard  was  a  confused  chorus  of  "  Auld  Lang 
Syne,"  "He's  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow,"  "Good  Luck! 
Good  Luck!  Hurray!  "  all  overtopped  by  Worboise's 
bloodhound  bellow  — "  Goad  bless  you !  Goad  bless 
you !  Goad-by !  " 

The  Governor  tripped  beside  us,  neater,  cooler, 
more  dry  and  chiplike  than  ever,  and  I  read  in  the 
very  set  of  his  helmet  that  he  connected  these  un- 
seemly demonstrations  directly  and  disgustedly  with 
myself.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Down  the  hill  we  went,  beneath  the  mem- 
orable rubber  tree,  along  the  bit  of  flat  where  the 
bananas  waved  their  huge  green  flags  in  the  gathering 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  233 

breeze,  through  the  grove  of  dry,  rattling  palms,  over 
the  black  swamp,  where  the  little  skip-fish  jumped 
nervously  out  of  the  water  at  our  approach,  and  leaped 
away  along  the  land  —  out  on  to  the  coral  stone  jetty, 
where  the  banded  sea-snakes  used  to  creep  and  bask  in 
the  hot  hours  of  afternoon  —  to  the  end  of  the  pier, 
and  the  damp-green  wooden  stairs,  and  the  boat  — 
the  boat  at  last !  God,  but  I  was  glad !  Was  there 
ever  a  bridegroom  yet  who  did  not  in  his  heart  re- 
gard the  wedding  mummeries  and  the  wedding  fes- 
tivities, from  beginning  to  end,  merely  as  the  price 
extorted  for  his  bride  by  the  tyrannical  deities  of 
Societies  and  Custom?  A  price  that  has  to  be  paid, 
but  is  seldom  paid  willingly  —  never  with  enjoyment. 

With  her  white  cushions  and  awnings,  and  her  gay 
decorations  of  flags,  the  whaleboat  made  a  bright 
patch  of  color,  and  she  looked  all  the  gayer  when 
Stephanie's  pretty  figure  was  settled  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  overflowing  the  cushions  with  such  a  compli- 
cation of  draperies  that  there  seemed  to  be  very  little 
room  left  for  me  —  though  indeed,  that  was  a  cir- 
cumstance with  which  I  was  not  likely  to  quarrel. 

There  had  been  a  close,  clinging  embrace  between 
the  father  and  the  daughter,  on  the  pier;  the  Gov- 
ernor had  turned  as  yellow-white  as  the  faded  palm- 
fronds  drifting  out  with  the  tide,  but  had  not  given 
way  by  so  much  as  a  quiver  of  his  war-worn,  sea- 
beaten  features.  Stephanie  had  clung  and  sobbed  and 
choked  a  little,  and  then  broken  away  and  stepped 
into  the  boat,  smiling  as  women  can  smile  when  their 
hearts  are  near  to  breaking.  ...  I  handed  in  my 


234  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

bride,  sprang  up  the  steps  again  to  wring  the  Gov- 
ernor's unresponsive  hand,  sprang  down  and  into  my 
seat,  and  cried  "  Shove  off "  to  the  crew.  .  .  . 
The  sea  breeze  freshened  as  we  shot  beyond  the  pier  ; 
the  Governor's  straight  stiff  form  grew  smaller  and 
smaller.  A  long  way  out,  we  could  see  it  still,  stand- 
ing there  alone. 

When  I  open  my  eyes,  in  the  darkness  of  those 
long  nights,  I  can  see  the  Merrie  England  and  all  on 
board  her,  the  sea,  the  hills,  the  town  beyond,  as 
clearly  as  I  saw  them  on  that  ill-fated  day  itself. 
.  .  .  I  shall  see  them  so,  in  the  daytime  and  the 
night,  till  the  greater  darkness  shuts  my  eyes  forever. 

A  picture  painted  in  gems  and  fire,  was  the  ship 
that  afternoon.  The  blinding  sparkle  of  the  sea 
shone  back  from  her  brass  fittings,  all  brightened  up 
with  gold;  from  the  new  clean  varnish  of  the  bul- 
warks, the  great  sash  windows  of  the  deck-houses,  and 
the  smaller  circles  of  the  ports.  Not  even  the  colors 
of  the  sky  and  sea  and  land,  on  that  gorgeous  day, 
equaled  the  glow  of  the  masses  of  flowers  that  had 
been  stacked  and  twined  about  hatchways,  gratings, 
ratlines  and  rails.  The  decks  and  awnings  were  white 
as  coral  from  the  reef.  Sparks  of  fire  shot  from 
the  gilded  buttons  and  stripes  of  the  officers'  snowy 
uniforms;  the  A.  B.'s  were  in  blue  suits;  the  native 
firemen  and  deck-hands  in  brilliant  cotton  kilts  and 
flowery  wreaths.  Below  the  hull,  the  grass-green 
water  surged  and  swung,  and  high  above,  a  cloud  of 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  235 

flags,  blue,  yellow,  white  and  red,  was  slatting  and 
straining  in  the  rising  breeze. 

"  Wind  getting  up,  Captain,"  I  remarked,  as  that  of- 
ficial handed  Stephanie  gallantly  up  the  accommoda- 
tion ladder,  I  holding  her  skirts  for  her. 

"  Aye,  but  it's  changed;  we'll  have  it  aft,  and  she'll 
run  fairly  steady.  Not  that  Mrs.  Lynch  cares  about 
that ;  she's  a  very  fair  sailor,"  smiled  the  captain. 

"  Not  the  wind  one  would  expect  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  No  —  no  —  but  there's  no  depending  on  anything, 
about  the  break  of  the  seasons.  Yon  little  cutter  must 
have  had  to  beat  all  the  way  up  the  coast,  though  she's 
got  a  slant  now." 

So  she  had ;  the  little  seed-pearl  of  the  horizon  had 
reappeared  from  behind  an  outlying  island,  and  was 
now  plain  to  be  seen  as  a  cutter  of  some  ten  or  twelve 
tons,  hurrying  portward  as  fast  as  sail  could  carry 
her.  The  wind  was  blowing  strong  from  the  south- 
east, and  a  bank  of  cloud  was  rising  over  the  Astro- 
labe. 

"With  your  leave,  sir,  we'll  up  anchor  now,"  said 
the  captain,  beckoning  to  the  mate.  "  I'd  as  soon 
clear  the  coast  before  dark;  we  find  new  reefs  here 
every  trip." 

The  donkey-engine  was  got  to  work  at  once,  and, 
amid  a  hideous  clattering  and  clanging,  the  chains 
began  to  rise  through  the  hawse-pipes.  While  we 
were  getting  under  way,  Stephanie,  gay  as  a  child,  in- 
sisted on  leading  me  by  the  hand  all  over  the  ship, 
showing  me  the  Governor's  and  secretaries'  cabins  on 


236  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

deck;  the  dining-saloon  below,  with  its  smart  white 
and  gold  bulkheads,  and  its  gay  mirrors  and  carpeting, 
oddly  set  off  by  the  grim  rack  of  rifles  running  right 
across  the  forward  end ;  the  high-up  bridge  deck,  best 
place  in  the  world  for  lounging  and  looking  about 
you;  the  low,  cool  promenade  deck;  the  pretty  cabin 
reserved  for  us, —  a  real  little  sea  boudoir,  with  pier- 
glass  and  arm-chairs  and  a  bookcase,  and  three  bright 
ports  looking  out  upon  the  tumbling  waves,  above  the 
standing  bed-place.  In  and  out  of  every  corner  of 
the  ship  went  Stephanie's  flying  skirts,  and  after  her 
went  I,  for  the  moment  as  young  as  herself,  ready 
to  laugh  at  nothing,  eager  to  race  her  up  and  down 
the  alley-ways  and  companions  —  snatching  a  stray 
kiss  behind  a  door,  pinioning  and  imprisoning  my 
bride  in  a  china-closet,  and  being  punished  by  blows 
like  the  pecks  of  a  little  angry  bird,  when  she  suc- 
ceeded in  freeing  herself  by  an  unsuspected  exit  at  the 
other  side.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time,  the  donkey- 
engine  clattered,  and  the  anchor-chains  rattled  and 
roared,  and  the  rising  sea  struck  soft  white  hands 
upon  the  ports  outside.  ...  It  was  going  to  be 
a  stormy  night. 

In  a  last  wild  rush  up  the  main  companion  —  I  chas- 
ing Stephanie  to  pay  her  out  for  her  latest  impertinence, 
she  flying  before  me,  breathless  with  mischief  and 
laughter  —  the  roaring  of  the  chains  ceased,  and  we 
heard  the  stentorian  voice  of  the  mate  sing  out  — 
"  Come  up  from  below,  sir." 

"  We're  off !  "  cried  Stephanie,  standing  still. 

"  We  shall  be  in  a  minute,"  said  I.     A  sudden  quiet 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  237 

fell  upon  our  romp.  I  think  we  both  felt  older: 
I  know  we  looked  at  one  another  with  changed  faces. 
Here  and  now  we  felt  the  new  strange  life  began, 
with  the  severance  from  wild,  cruel  New  Guinea, 
where  first  our  destinies  had  met  and  touched  — 
whence  came  the  fate  that  had  sent  us  out  upon  these 
seas,  together. 

The  sharp  ting  of  the  engine-room  bell  broke  into 
the  silence. 

"  Stand  by  —  half  speed  —  full  speed  ahead,"  trans- 
lated I.  "  Now  we're  away." 

"  Let's  go  on  deck,"  said  Stephanie,  as  the  com- 
panion trembled  to  the  full  beat  of  the  screw. 

The  green  and  purple  hills  of  Port  Moresby  were 
already  changing  shape;  the  reaches  of  the  bay  were 
unfolding.  Behind  the  Merrie  England  a  long  white 
wake  began  to  show.  The  steamer  pitched  a  little  on 
the  incoming  swell  as  we  headed  out.  I  put  my  arm 
round  Stephanie's  waist  to  steady  her,  and  my  bride 
nestled  her  head  close  to  my  shoulder,  and  leaned 
against  me,  sighing  with  content. 

Filled  to  the  brim,  and  lifted  to  my  lips,  the  cup 
of  existence  ran  over  in  that  moment,  and  I  who 
never  prayed,  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to 
thank  "  whatever  gods  there  be,"  for  life,  for  love, 
and  Stephanie. 

At  that  instant,  the  thunderbolt  fell. 

.  .  .  When  the  captain  came  up  to  us,  with  an 
apologetic  smile,  balancing  himself  lightly  upon  the 
pitching  deck,  and  offering  some  inaudible  apology 
for  some  indefinite  necessity  —  when  the  boatswain 


238  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  the  mate,  hanging  over  the  weather-rail,  turned 
their  faces  from  the  whitening  sea,  and  looked  at  us 
with  a  sudden  furtive  interest  —  I  swear  I  knew  it 
all.  Whether  it  was  actual  second  sight  —  whether 
it  was  simply  the  rapid  working  of  a  mind  keyed  far 
beyond  its  normal  pitch  by  the  emotions  of  the  day 
—  I  cannot  tell.  But  in  that  moment  I  knew,  as 
surely  as  if  some  supernatural  messenger  had  told 
me,  that  Carolan  was  returning  upon  his  Eastern  pa- 
trol upon  that  cutter,  that  he  was  straining  every 
nerve  to  intercept  the  ship,  and  that  Fate  —  blind 
Fate  with  a  black-veiled  face,  and  a  skeleton  hand  — 
had  arisen  from  the  far  recesses  of  the  island  archi- 
pelagoes to  follow  me,  and  track  me  down,  and  tear 
my  darling  from  my  arms. 

I  think  I  almost  went  mad  for  a  second  or  two, 
but  I  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  «  .  .  Then 
.  .  .  I  could  see  that  the  captain  was  still  standing 
beside  me,  smiling  and  apologizing,  and  saying  some- 
thing about  urgent  signals  displayed  by  the  cutter  — 
short  time  that  would  be  occupied  in  stopping  and 
communicating  —  possibilities  —  illness  on  board,  doc- 
tor wanted  from  Queensland  —  outbreak  of  native 
troubles  —  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

I  was  quite  cool  now  —  cool  as  a  man  fighting  for 
his  life,  with  the  very  smallest  of  chances  to  see  him 
through.  I  took  Stephanie  to  a  sheltered  seat,  left 
her  there,  and  balanced  my  way  back  to  the  captain. 

"Why  stop?"  I  said,  "It's  a  nasty  sea,  and  the 
cutter  should  have  come  earlier  with  her  message, 
if  she  has  any.  It's  rather  too  much,  to  expect  us  to 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  239 

heave  to  outside  the  reef,  and  probably  lose  our  chance 
of  getting  clear  of  land  before  dark.  I've  heard  of 
the  Merrie  England's  reputation  before  now,  and  I'm 
sailor  enough,  anyhow,  to  see  that  she'll  nearly  roll  her 
masts  out  in  this  sea,  if  we  have  to  anchor  anywhere  for 
the  night  —  and  it's  a  toss-up  now  whether  we  don't. 
Get  along,  Captain,  and  let  the  cutter  go  hang." 

I  spoke  easily,  and  lit  a  cigar  as  I  talked.  .Captain 
Nash  looked  puzzled,  and  the  mate  and  .boatswain 
stared,  enjoying  the  dilemma. 

"  Well,  really,  sir'"  said  the  captain,  after  a  glance 
to  windward.  "  I  don't  know  that  I'm  justified  in 
keeping  on.  That's  one  of  the  Government  cutters 

—  the    Kapa-Kapa  —  and    Mr.    Carolan,    the    Chief 
Magistrate,  will  be  in  her,  I  think.     She's  signaling 
'  Wish  to  communicate,  urgent,  heave  to.'     It's  — " 

"  I  know  the  signals  as  well  as  you  do,"  I  said  im- 
patiently, "  but  I  see  no  reason  for  stopping.  No 
doubt  the  people  on  the  cutter  think  His  Excellency 
is  on  board,  and  want  to  speak  to  him.  They'll  find 
out  when  they  get  to  port  that  this  isn't  a  Govern- 
ment trip.  Hang  it  all,  Captain,  what  can  they  want 
with  us?  Keep  all  on,  and  let  them  go  to  —  Jericho 

—  with  their  signals." 

All  this  time,  the  rising  wind  shrilled  in  the  rigging, 
and  the  screw  beat  steadily.  A  monstrous  bat-winged 
lakatoi,  laden  with  sago  from  the  Gulf,  swept  past 
us  on  her  way  to  port,  her  decks  aswarm  with  wild 
brown,  naked  men,  crowding  to  gape  at  the  steamer. 
And  out  to  windward,  against  our  poor  nine  knots, 
the  cutter  almost  held  her  own. 


24o  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

For  a  moment,  the  captain's  slack  smooth  counte- 
nance seemed  to  waver,  and  my  soul  swung  plummet- 
wise  over  dark  abysses  of  agony,  in  the  sickening  up- 
and-down  that  men  call  "  suspense."  Then  his  face 
set  harder.  The  plummet  sank. 

I  caught  him  up  before  he  could  speak. 

"  Come  into  your  cabin !  "  I  said ;  and  though  he 
was  master  there,  he  obeyed  me. 

It  was  fight  to  a  finish  now,  and  I  had  no  scruples 
left.  I  pulled  a  small  box  out  of  an  inner  pocket, 
took  off  the  lid  and  spilt  the  contents  out  on  the  quilt 
of  the  captain's  berth, —  three-and-twenty  good  pearls, 
gathered  through  near  seven  years  of  fishing,  trading, 
and  wandering;  none  of  them  fit  for  the  ear  or  hand 
of  a  queen,  perhaps,  but  each  worth  a  very  respecta- 
ble sum.  I  had  meant  them  for  a  necklace  for  my 
bride,  after  we  should  have  reached  Brisbane;  but  it 
seemed  that  they  were  to  be  the  price  of  my  bride  in- 
stead. 

The  captain  viewed  the  jewels  eagerly.  He  was  a 
small  rat-like  creature,  with  a  greedy  eye. 

I  put  them  back  in  their  box,  and  forced  it  into  his 
hands;  I  stared  him  in  the  eyes  as  I  did  so,  and  said 
significantly : 

"  I  don't  want  the  cutter  to  catch  us  up." 

If,  in  that  rat-like  countenance,  I  read  weakness, 
covetousness  and  fear  —  if  I  played  upon  them  one 
and  all,  and  bent  them  to  my  needs  —  I  make  no  ex- 
cuse for  it.  What  would  another  in  my  place  have 
done? 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  241 

The  captain  gulped,  smiled,  and  closed  an  eager 
hand  about  the  box. 

"  All  right,"  he  whispered.  "  I  don't  know  your 
game,  but  I'm  on.  Come  out,  and  I'll  speak  to  the 
mate." 

All  this  had  taken  but  a  few  minutes.  The  cutter 
still  swept  on  beneath  the  blackening  sky.  The  mate 
and  boatswain  waited,  leaning  against  the  rail. 
Stephanie,  from  her  chair,  watched  us  without  much 
interest.  There  was  nothing  exciting  to  her  in  the 
appearance  of  a  belated  Government  cutter  that  wanted 
to  talk.  Officials  always  wanted  to  talk,  in  her  ex- 
perience. 

Captain  Nash  marched  up  to  the  mate,  with  a  blus- 
tering expression. 

"  Keep  all  on,"  he  said.  "  We  can't  be  stopped  by 
every  —  hooker  that  wants  to  change  the  time  of  day 
with  us ! " 

"  What !  "  said  the  mate,  disrespectfully. 

"  I  gave  you  your  orders,  Mr.  Blake,"  snapped  the 
captain.  All  British  New  Guinea  knew  that  no  love 
was  lost  between  these  two  —  the  mate,  an  old  Royal 
Navy  man,  ambitious,  fairly  well  educated,  and  eager 
to  rise :  ready  at  any  time  to  catch  his  superior  trip- 
ping—  the  captain,  weak,  ignorant,  boastful,  bluster- 
ous, and  holding  the  reins  of  authority  with  a  very 
uncertain  grip.  The  one  was  drowned  off  Orokolo 
not  three  weeks  later  —  a  good  man  lost  —  the  other 
left  the  ship  one  day  in  Cooktown,  and  never  re- 
turned. I  have  never  seen  their  successors;  they  do 


242  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

not  (I  understand^  hold  social  intercourse  with  the 
jail. 

"  Am  I  to  answer  the  signal  —  the  urgent  signal  — 
displayed  by  that  cutter,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  mate. 

"  No,  Mr.  Blake,  you  are  not.  Am  I  captain  here, 
or  are  you  ?  "  Captain  Nash  swung  round  theatric- 
ally, and  turned  to  stride  across  the  deck.  His  foot 
slipped  on  a  wet  patch  of  planking  as  he  did  so,  and 
he  fell  full  length.  The  box  of  pearls  shot  out  of  his 
hand,  and  in  another  instant  the  deck  was  scattered 
with  flying,  rolling  specks  of  white,  worth  many  a 
month's  wage  to  the  unlucky  wretch  who  had  dropped 
them.  He  clutched  at  them  with  a  scream,  but  the 
mate  stepped  forward,  and  hauled  him  roughly  to  his 
feet. 

"  Let  be !  "  he  said.  "  There's  work  going  on  here 
I  don't  care  about.  He  — "  pointing  to  me  — "  gave 
you  those  in  your  cabin  just  now.  I  saw  you  come 
out  with  the  box.  What  for?  Why  aren't  we  to 
heave  to?  This'll  look  well  when  it  all  comes  out 
later  on,  won't  it?" 

"  D —  you !  "  yelled  the  captain,  "  you've  been  try- 
ing to  oust  me  ever  since  you  joined,  and  this  is  all  a 
piece  of  it!  Have  it  your  own  way,  then  —  mutiny, 
you  dog,  you,  and  see  what  you'll  get !  "  He  was  down 
on  the  deck  again,  crawling  and  clawing  after  the 
pearls,  and  really  seemed  half  demented.  Stephanie 
had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  was  clinging  to  me 
in  terror,  not  understanding,  but  badly  frightened, 
at  she  knew  not  what.  The  boatswain,  chewing  to- 
bacco, watched  the  scene  with  the  calm  relish  of  a 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  243 

servant  enjoying  a  row  among  his  masters.  Outside, 
the  white  seas  roared  along  our  swinging  hull,  and 
the  black  and  purple  coast  of  Papua  slipped  past. 

"I'm  not  mutineer!"  roared  the  mate.  "I  ask 
you,  sir,  as  your  chief  officer,  what  order  I'm  to  give 
the  engine-room  ?  " 

The  captain,  evidently  shaken  by  the  discovery  that 
had  fallen  on  him,  made  no  articulate  answer,  but  held 
to  his  pearls. 

"  Do  I  understand  you  to  say,  sir,  that  I  am  to  ring 
'  Stop  '  ?  "  persisted  the  mate. 

"  Ring  her  to  hell  if  you  like!  "  howled  Nash,  and 
slammed  himself  into  his  cabin. 

The  mate  went  at  once  to  the  bridge-ladder,  and  as 
he  mounted,  I  loosened  Stephanie's  clinging  arms, 
and  put  her  in  her  chair,  with  a  word  or  two  of  as- 
surance. Before  the  officer  had  reached  the  tele- 
graph, I  was  on  the  bridge-deck  beside  him.  I  sup- 
pose I  looked  ugly.  I  know  I  felt  like  murder. 

"  If  you  ring,"  I  said,  "  I'll  heave  your  rotten 
carcase  over  the  side,  and  the  sharks  won't  wait  for  a 
boat  to  be  lowered." 

He  fixed  a  pair  of  gooseberry  eyes  on  me. 

"  I'm  seein'  this  through,"  he  said.  "  Heave  me 
over  if  you  like,  but  I  ask  you  to  ask  yourself,  what 
good  that's  going  to  do  you." 

My  hands  fell  to  my  sides.  What  good  indeed? 
Sick  at  heart,  I  sat  down  on  a  grating,  and  there  was 
no  more  spirit  left  in  me. 

The  mate  took  hold  of  the  telegraph. 

"Standby!     Stop!" 


244  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Stop  it  is." 

The  engines  slowed,  and  stopped.  The  Merrie 
England  wallowed  sickeningly  on  the  swell.  Ste- 
phanie, pale  and  frightened,  came  staggering  up  the 
companion  and  caught  at  my  arm. 

"  Hugh,  why  are  we  stopping?  What's  the  matter? 
What  have  they  all  quarreled  about  ?  Tell  me ! " 

I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  clasped  her  as  one 
clasps  the  dying,  when  the  sands  of  life  are  almost 
run,  and  the  shadow  of  eternal  severance  falls  dark 
and  very  near. 

"Hugh,  you're  shaking!  Oh,  I'm  frightened! 
What  is  it?" 

"  Darling,"  I  said,  lying  boldly,  "  it's  only  a  dispute 
between  the  captain  and  the  mate  about  stopping  for 
the  cutter ;  you've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Go  down 
to  your  cabin,  and  stay  there  for  a  little:  they  may 
use  rough  language,  and  in  any  case  you're  better  off 
the  deck,  with  all  this  spray  flying." 

I  do  not  think  she  was  quite  deceived,  for  her  eyes 
asked  questions  that  I  could  not  answer ;  but  she  turned 
away  silently,  and  crept  down  the  companion,  held  up 
by  my  arm.  I  took  her  to  her  berth  and  left  her  lying 
there,  wedged  in  with  pillows  for  steadiness ;  the  ship 
was  rolling  very  badly  now. 

Then  I  returned  to  the  deck. 

The  cutter  had  been  doing  near  as  much  as  our- 
selves (the  Merrie  England  is  by  no  means  an  ocean 
grayhound)  and  was  now  overhauling  us  rapidly. 
The  mate  was  inspecting  our  pursuer  through  a  glass ; 
he  handed  it  to  me,  silently,  as  I  came  up.  I  steadied 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  245 

myself  against  the  water-tank,  and  looked.  Carolan's 
figure,  hauling  hard  on  a  sheet,  leapt  into  sudden 
clearness  inside  the  ring  of  the  lens.  His  police,  in 
their  blue  and  red  tunics,  were  squatting  about  the 
deck  of  the  cutter,  holding  on  to  the  weather-gun- 
wale as  the  boat  heeled  over  to  the  wind.  There 
seemed  to  be  about  a  dozen  of  them. 

"  You  see  I  was  right,"  said  the  mate.  He  had 
dropped  the  "  sir "  now,  and  was  casting  suspicious 
glances  at  me  out  of  his  gooseberry  eyes.  Plainly, 
he  did  not  like  the  way  things  had  been  going.  Cap- 
tain Nash  remained  in  his  cabin,  with  the  door  shut. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  the  Kapa-Kapa  was  right 
alongside  us,  recklessly  braving  the  ugly  chop  of  our 
pitching  bows.  The  line  thrown  out  by  the  mate 
was  smartly  caught  by  a  constable.  Carolan  seized 
the  Jacob's  ladder  as  the  cutter  swung  past,  and 
clambered  on  deck  with  some  difficulty  —  a  damp,  be- 
draggled figure,  hair  on  end,  face  unshaved,  duck 
clothing  dirty  and  wet  —  the  very  ghost  of  the  trim 
official  that  Port  Moresby  knew.  His  face  was  gray 
and  mottled  as  the  back  of  a  lizard ;  his  eyes  burned 
black  and  fierce  at  the  bottom  of  two  dark  caverns. 
He  was  a  full  stone  lighter  than  on  the  day  I  had 
met  him  under  the  rubber-tree  —  the  day  on  which  I 
had  mocked  and  triumphed  over  him.  .  .  .  To- 
day, it  was  his  turn. 

He  came  up  to  me  where  I  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  deck.  The  pitching  of  the  ship  made  him  stagger, 
and  he  almost  flung  himself  upon  me,  as  he  reached 
out  to  touch  my  arm. 


246  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Lynch,"  he  said  —  and  there  was  something  like 
a  rim  of  foam  about  his  lips  as  he  spoke  — "  I  arrest 
you  for  the  murder  of  Herbert  Sanderson,  in  Rossel 
Island,  last  April  year." 

The  mate  whistled  shrilly. 

"  Oho !  "  said  he.  "  So  that's  the  milk  of  the  cocoa- 
nut?" 

The  boatswain,  glued  to  the  bulwark,  chewed  like 
a  machine,  and  stared  hard,  lest  he  should  miss  a 
movement  or  a  word.  From  the  cutter  below,  the 
shock-headed  native  police  were  climbing  one  by  one 
to  the  deck,  every  man  with  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder, 
and  his  bandolier  across  his  naked  chest.  Evidently, 
Carolan  meant  to  take  no  chances.  I  did  not  move 
from  where  I  stood,  but  I  cursed  Carolan  —  once.  I 
should  not  care  to  write  what  I  said. 

The  mate  looked  at  me  with  interest.  The  captain 
peered  out  of  his  half -opened  port  (whence,  no  doubt, 
he  had  heard  everything)  and  drew  back  his  head. 
The  police  grounded  their  arms  on  deck,  leaned  upon 
their  rifles,  and  fixed  their  brown-china  eyes  on  me. 

Carolan  cleared  his  throat,  and  put  on'  his  official 
manner. 

"Well?"  he  said,  jingling  something  in  his  pocket. 

"I  —  I  wouldn't,  sir,  if  I  was  you,"  warned  the 
mate,  in  an  audible  aside.  "  I  know  his  sort ;  they  go 
*  kava-kava '  right  away,  if  you  tie  'em  up.  Ask  him 
if  he'll  go  quiet,  sir,  do.  Blame  me,"  he  added,  wip- 
ing his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  embar- 
rassedly,  "  if  I'm  not  more  than  half  sorry  for  the 
poor  devil  —  and  he  a  sailor-man  himself  and  all." 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  247 

"Lynch,  if  I  don't  handcuff  you,  will  you  return 
quietly?"  asked  the  Chief  Magistrate. 

I  did  not  speak,  because  I  could  not.  I  took  a  turn 
across  the  deck,  and  snatched  at  a  water-bottle  I  saw 
standing  in  one  of  the  deck  cabins.  My  mouth  and 
throat  were  as  dry  and  burning  as  the  furnaces  of  the 
ship.  I  tossed  half  the  water  down,  and  faced  Caro- 
lan  again. 

"  I  did  it,"  I  said.  "  I'd  do  it  again  to-morrow  — 
and  I'd  kill  you  here  on  the  deck  with  my  bare  hands 
—  only  —  only  for — " 

I  broke  off  and  cursed  him  again.  The  captain's 
face,  very  pale,  showed  like  an  apparition  behind  the 
glass  of  his  port ;  he  had  screwed  it  tight,  and  his  door 
was  shut.  The  police  drew  together  like  a  bunch  of 
frightened  beasts,  and  fingered  the  locks  of  their  Win- 
chesters. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you'd  serve  me  as  you  served  poor 
Sanderson,  if  you  dared,"  said  Carolan,  keeping  his 
ground  and  his  temper  as  if  he  had  been  in  his 
own  court-house  ashore.  "  I  know  that  —  but  even 
you  wouldn't  do  murder  again  —  with  her  on 
board." 

"If  you  lay  your  lips  to  the  name  of  my  wife  — " 
I  began. 

The  mate  stepped  forward,  and  put  his  hand  on 
Carolan's  arm. 

"  Sir,  they  were  married  this  morning  —  did  you 
know?"  he  asked.  And  those  green  eyes  of  his 
looked  at  me  almost  pitifully. 

There  was  no  pity  in  Carolan's  face:  he  glowed 


248  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

like  an  Elizabethan  true  believer  haling  a  discovered 
priest  to  the  hanging  and  quartering. 

"  I  heard  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  this  week,  of 
course,"  he  said,  "  and  when  I  saw  the  Merrie  Eng- 
land under  steam,  I  knew  it  had  taken  place.  .  .  . 
I've  scarcely  slept  or  eaten  for  a  week,  trying  to  get 
that  cursed  cutter  up  the  coast  in  time.  It  was  chance 
took  me  down  to  Rossel  —  a  row  among  the  natives 
—  but  something  I  heard  there  set  me  at  work,  and  I 
got  it  all  clear  in  a  few  days.  ...  If  you  don't 
hang  for  what  you've  done,  Hugh  Lynch,  there's  no 
law  or  justice  in  a  British  Crown  Colony.  Now  are 
you  coming  quietly,  or  are  you  not?  " 

There  was  not  much  law,  or  justice  either,  about 
his  method  of  making  the  arrest;  but  I  did  not  care  to 
quarrel  over  trifles  that  could  make  no  difference  in 
the  end. 

Before  I  could  answer,  the  mate  intervened  again. 

"  Sir,  if  we've  got  to  go  back  to  port,  we  might  as 
well  get  her  under  way  again,  and  tow  the  cutter," 
he  said.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  trying  to  save 
me  from  the  necessity  of  speaking. 

"  Where's   the  captain  ?  "   demanded   Carolan. 

"  He's  in  his  cabin  .  .  .  sick,"  grinned  the 
mate,  rolling  over  to  Nash's  door.  He  knocked  till 
it  was  opened,  and  then  went  in.  What  he  said  to  the 
captain  I  do  not  know,  nor  did  I  ever  care  to  ask.  In 
truth,  I  never  saw  Nash,  or  the  necklace,  again. 

The  mate  came  out,  went  on  the  bridge,  and  rang 
the  telegraph.  The  screw  began  to  beat ;  the  ship  tore 
up  the  waves  as  she  turned.  In  another  minute  she 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  249 

had  swung  round  upon  her  former  track,  and  was 
pitching  through  the  seas  to  Port  Moresby. 

We  got  into  still  water  in  about  half-an-hour,  and 
opposite  the  pier,  the  engines  were  stopped,  and  the 
anchor  chains  roared  down.  I  had  been  hoping 
against  hope  that  Stephanie  might  stay  in  her  cabin 
until  I  had  been  taken  away,  so  that  she  might  be 
spared  as  much  as  possible;  but  the  letting  go  of  the 
anchor  roused  her  from  the  troubled  sleep  into  which 
she  had  fallen,  and  she  came  on  deck. 

I  saw  her  catch  at  the  rigging,  and  almost  fall,  as 
she  caught  sight  of  the  crowd  collected  there  —  the 
twelve  police  grouped  close  about  me,  Carolan's  hag- 
gard figure  keeping  guard,  the  mate  shouting  orders 
to  the  sailors  in  the  bow,  and  the  captain  nowhere 
visible. 

"  Hugh !  "  she  said,  with  almost  a  shriek.  "  Mr. 
Carolan !  Oh,  what  has  happened  ?  " 

I  sat  down  on  the  skylight,  and  buried  my  head  in 
my  hands,  for  I  could  not  look  at  her.  All  my 
strength  seemed  turned  to  water  at  the  sight  of  her 
face  —  hers,  upon  whom  I  had  brought  a  sorrow 
worse  than  death.  I  heard  Carolan  speaking,  and 
then  a  scream  from  Stephanie  tore  the  air. 

"  Liar !  "  she  cried,  and  her  feet  flew  across  the 
deck.  Her  arms  were  around  me,  her  fingers  tear- 
ing away  my  hands  from  my  face. 

"  Hugh !  he's  telling  lies  —  he  says  you  are  a  mur- 
derer —  look  at  me,  darling,  I  don't  believe  him  —  I 
wouldn't  if  he  was  dying  —  you  never  did  it!  Hugh, 
speak  to  me  —  I  believe  you  before  all  the  world !  " 


250  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  looked  up,  and  she  turned  gray  —  gray  as  the 
dusk  now  falling  fast  on  sea  and  town. 

"  I  killed  him,"  I  said. 

"  You  —  killed  him  — "  she  said,  with  glassy  eyes. 
"Will  they  — kill  — you?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  I  answered  her,  and  dropped  my  head 
in  my  hands  again. 

When  I  looked  up,  Stephanie  was  gone. 

A  brown  woman  stood  before  me,  a  woman  decked 
in  beads  and  feathers  —  Tararua.  The  Governor's 
boat  was  lying  alongside  the  ship  —  empty,  save  for 
the  crew.  Carolan  was  sitting  on  the  bulwark  by  the 
accommodation  ladder,  guarding  the  opening  with  his 
police. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  I  asked.  I  was  past  all  surprise 
—  past  feeling,  mercifully,  for  the  moment. 

"  Misi  Sefania  he  stop  'long  cabin,"  answered  Tara- 
rua. "  Misi  Sefania  he  cly  flenty.  Govana  he  been 
come,  he  stop,  'long  Misi  Sefania." 

"Ask  her  to  come  and  see  me  —  before  I  go,"  I 
said.  * 

There  was  another  interval,  I  do  not  know  how 
long.  Then  Tararua  was  standing  before  me  again, 
and  I  heard  her  say  — 

"  Misi  Sefania,  he  tell  '  Good-by.'  " 

I  "  went  quietly."  The  police  boat  came  alongside, 
and  Carolan  and  I  and  the  twelve  constables  got  into 
it.  The  night  falls  quickly  in  New  Guinea;  there 
was  scarce  a  spark  of  the  orange  after-glow  remain- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  251 

ing  in  the  west,  as  we  tramped  across  the  flat  to  the 
jail.  The  wind  thrashed  fiercely  among  the  palms, 
and  tore  the  blossoms  from  the  oleanders,  flinging 
them  down  upon  the  track,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the 
flower-strewn  path  that  Stephanie  and  I  had  trodden 
together,  that  morning  —  only  that  morning,  when  the 
sun  was  in  the  heavens,  and  love  and  life  and  happi- 
ness were  mine.  Now  it  was  night,  and  the  stars 
had  fallen  from  the  sky,  and  I  was  in  the  dark  — 
alone. 

I  might  write  a  good  deal  about  the  trial,  but  I  do 
not  care  to.  I  have  grown  tired  —  tired  of  writing, 
tired  of  remembering,  tired  almost,  of  living.  What 
does  it  matter,  in  the  end? 

"  What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants,  in  the  gleam  of  a 
million,  million  suns  ?  " 

A  hundred  years  hence,  it  will  not  matter  to  any- 
one that  Stephanie  and  I  once  lived,  loved,  parted  and 
died.  There'll  be  a  grave  in  an  English  cemetery, 
a  grave  with  marble  and  ironwork  that  cost  someone 
money  to  put  up,  before  it  rotted  and  crumbled  away : 
there'll  be  a  pinch  of  fat  earth  under  the  fathom-deep 
leaf-mold  of  the  ten  thousand  foot  ranges,  or  a  hand- 
ful of  phosphate  at  the  bottom  of  the  coral  seas,  that 
once  was  I  ...  instead  of  a  double  headstone 
in  the  swampy  Port  Moresby  graveyard,  with  two 
sets  of  bones  beneath  it  gone  back  to  earth  side  by 
side,  as  there  would  have  been,  if  .  .  . 

That  will  be  all  the  difference  —  then. 


252  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  believe  the  trial  was  fair  enough,  according  to  the 
peculiar  laws  of  British  New  Guinea.  There  were 
plenty  of  witnesses  —  the  Resident  Magistrate  from 
Nivani  Island,  who  had  seen  Sanderson's  schooner  go 
by  on  its  way  to  Rossel,  and  had  afterwards  seen  my- 
self, and  given  me  directions  about  Horakiraki 
Passage  —  a  couple  of  Rossel  natives  who  had  drifted 
down  to  Nivani  in  a  canoe,  driven  there  by  a  storm, 
and  told  the  story  of  the  white  men's  fight  —  five  of 
the  guides  who  had  accompanied  me  through  the  for- 
est, and  —  Garia. 

Yes,  Garia  was  in  it,  and  an  important  witness  too. 
The  mind  of  the  Papuan  native  is  almost  the  mind 
of  a  child;  my  servant  could  scarcely  have  been  made 
to  understand  —  even  had  anyone  tried  —  that  his 
boastful  account  of  my  prowess  in  hunting  down  San- 
derson was  likely  to  do  me  a  mischief.  He  told  all 
he  could  readily  and  fluently  and  —  though  he  never 
knew  it  —  drove  not  a  few  good  nails  into  the  coffin 
of  my  dying  freedom. 

I  refused  to  plead;  indeed,  I  do  not  think  I  spoke 
at  all  during  the  trial.  Carolan,  in  discharge  of  his 
office  as  Chief  Magistrate,  tried  me,  without  a  jury, 
after  the  preliminary  hearing  by  the  Resident  Magis- 
trate of  Port  Moresby.  That  is  the  law  of  the  col- 
ony: I  do  not  say  that  it  is  a  good  law,  or  that  the 
proposed  alterations  will  not  be  for  the  better;  but  I 
have,  personally,  no  just  cause  for  complaint. 

Carolan  was  quite  prepared  to  hang  me,  I  think, 
and  would  not  have  been  sorry  for  the  necessity  — 
his  judicial  horror  over  my  killing  of  the  man  who 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  253 

took  my  girl  from  me,  seemed  to  be  kept  in  a  sort  of 
water-tight  compartment,  quite  unconnected  with  his 
strong  personal  desire  to  kill  me  for  an  exactly  similar 
reason. 

But  the  magisterial  inquiry  turned  somewhat  in  my 
favor,  and  so  did  the  native  evidence,  during  the  trial 
itself.  I  could  have  wished  that  the  real  facts  of 
the  fight  in  the  glen  had  been  made  a  little  clearer; 
as  it  was,  Carolan,  in  his  address  before  passing  sen- 
tence, saw  fit  to  charge  me  with  meanness  and  treach- 
ery, in  "  hunting  down  an  unarmed  man  by  means  of 
a  superior  force,"  and  obliging  him  to  fight  me.  My 
strength,  he  was  pleased  to  say,  made  a  fight  between 
myself  and  any  ordinary  man  a  mere  murder  under 
another  name;  the  intent  to  kill  had  been  plainly 
proved,  and  nothing  but  the  want  of  clearness  in  the 
interpreted  evidence  as  to  who  struck  the  first  blow, 
prevented  his  passing  a  sentence  that  would,  once  for 
all,  put  an  end  to  lawless  violence  among  the  whites 
of  the  Territory.  As  it  was,  he  did  not  feel  justified 
in  treating  the  case  otherwise  than  as  manslaughter, 
or  in  passing  sentence  of  more  than  four  years  im- 
prisonment, to  be  served  in  Port  Moresby  jail.  He 
hoped  that  even  this  comparatively  light  punishment 
might  have  some  effect  on  the  deplorably  lawless  spirit 
that  he  had  long  been  pained  to  observe  was  preva- 
lent in  British  New  Guinea. 

Well  —  to  give  him  justice,  he  might  have  done 
worse.  I  had  killed  Sanderson  of  set  design,  and  he 
knew  it.  A  little  stretching  of  the  evidence  —  a  lit- 
tle intimidating  of  the  wild  Rossel  islanders  who  were 


254  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

terrified  nearly  sick  by  their  strange  surroundings  and 
ready  to  say  almost  anything  put  into  their  mouths, — 
a  little  more  stress  laid  on  the  half -spoken  acknowl- 
edgment I  had  made  to  Garia  of  my  intentions  — 
and  the  knot  that  tangled  all  our  lives  would  have 
been  shorn  through  once  for  all. 

Carolan,  I  say,  could  have  done  this,  and  done  it 
without,  in  real  truth,  defeating  the  ultimate  ends  of 
justice,  as  it  is  understood  by  popular  opinion.  But 
he  did  not.  With  all  he  valued  on  earth  as  the  prize 
of  a  very  little  chicanery  —  with  Stephanie  herself  in 
the  balance  (for  he  must  have  had  hopes,  had  I  been 
out  of  the  way)  he  still  held  the  balance  fairly,  and 
flung  the  British  Constitution,  nothing  less,  into  the 
scale  that  weighed  against  him.  Professional  honor, 
tried  by  this  fearful  test,  held  fast.  I  shall  not  cease 
to  hate  him  till  the  grave  closes  over  us  both  —  but 
ever  since  then,  I  have  respected  Carolan. 

The  trial  lasted  three  days,  and  the  tin  match-box 
they  call  a  Court-House  was  packed  with  almost  every 
soul  in  Port  Moresby,  all  the  while.  It  is  curious, 
but  true,  that  I  did  not  suffer  much  during  that  time. 
The  ceaseless  fire  of  staring  eyes,  the  interminable 
•  question  and  answer,  interpreting  and  re-interpreting, 
of  the  evidence,  seemed  to  hynotize  me  into  a  kind  of 
stupor,  and  I  sat  hour  after  hour  in  my  corner,  look- 
ing at  my  great  weather-browned  hands  lying  on  my 
knees,  or  watching  the  flicker  of  the  slim  shadeless 
eucalyptus  foliage  against  the  flare  of  the  sky,  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  was  going  on.  I  think  that  half- 
hour  of  unspeakable  agony  on  board  the  Merrie  Eng- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  255 

land  had  broken  some  nerve  of  suffering.  It  may  not 
be  good  physiology,  but  it  is  good  fact,  to  say  that 
something  "  gives  "  in  hours  like  those,  as  often  as 
not,  and  that  life  and  reason  may  be  saved  by  the 
deadness  that  follows  —  for  a  time.  Afterwards,  the 
torturers  may  be  let  loose  in  good  earnest,  and  on  the 
shrinking  soul  may  be  laid,  as  on  cowering  bodies  in 
the  days  of  the  "  peine  forte  et  dure  " — "  as  much 
iron  .  .  .  as  it  can  bear  —  and  more."  But  of 
that  —  since  I  do  not  wish  to  go  mad  through  mere  re- 
membrance —  I  shall  not  write. 

As  I  have  said,  I  felt  little  at  the  trial.  I  remem- 
ber that  the  wild  mint  smelt  fresh  and  pungent  all  day 
outside  the  windows,  and  that  as  the  afternoon  wore 
on,  a  hot  sweet  odor  of  sandalwood  used  to  rise  up 
from  the  steamer-jetty,  where  they  were  loading  ships 
with  the  brown  scented  logs  won  by  wandering  trad- 
ers in  the  depths  of  unknown  forests,  and  on  the  banks 
of  unexplored  great  streams.  I  remember  how  the 
orange-breasted  honey-bird  used  to  hang  about  the 
red  blooms  of  the  hibiscus  that  grew  near  the  door  — 
diving  and  skimming,  dipping  and  fluttering  close  to 
the  lintel,  in  their  happy  flights  —  the  wild  free  wan- 
dering creatures,  whom  no  man  caged  or  held.  I 
remember  the  atmosphere  of  hot  humanity  in  the 
Court-House,  and  the  whispering  and  fidgeting,  and 
the  shuffling  of  feet,  as  one  man  after  another  from 
time  to  time  rose  and  slipped  out,  down  the  hill, 
through  the  mint  and  the  yellow-pink  lantana,  and  the 
fallen  hibiscus  bells  lying  in  the  powdery  scarlet  dust, 
to  the  iron-built  "  hotel "  on  the  flat,  for  a  drink. 


256  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

.  .  .  Carolan  let  me  smoke,  and  I  smoked  almost 
all  day  long,  heavy  stupefying  trade  tobacco.  It 
helped  me  to  pass  the  time,  and  that  was  all  I  cared 
for.  Whether  they  hanged  me  or  not,  mattered  ex- 
tremely little  to  me,  but  it  did  seem  to  matter  that 
they  should  get  the  thing  over  one  way  or  another,  as 
soon  as  might  be. 

The  Governor  came  every  day,  and  sat  close  to 
Carolan,  a  silent,  wooden,  watchful  figure.  There 
was  more  white  in  the  gray  of  his  hair  than  there  had 
been  a  few  weeks  before,  and  the  two  straight  lines  on 
either  side  of  his  mouth  were  cut  deeper,  but  his  face, 
on  the  whole,  told  little  of  what  he  felt. 

He  spoke  to  me  once  only,  on  the  last  day  of  the 
trial,  when  my  sentence  had  been  pronounced,  and 
the  jailer  was  waiting  to  take  me  away.  Then  he 
came  up  to  me,  looking  frail  and  old,  and  addressed 
me  in  what  was  evidently  a  prepared  speech.  I  don't 
remember  all  he  said,  but  it  was  in  general,  to  the  ef- 
fect that  Stephanie  desired  never  to  hear  of  me  again, 
that  she  had  been  ill,  but  was  getting  better,  and  that 
he  (the  Governor)  had  only  been  waiting  the  end  of 
the  trial  to  take  her  down  to  Queensland  at  once.  As 
soon  as  the  cable  could  set  him  free,  he  said,  he  would 
resign  his  post,  and  start  for  England,  taking  his 
daughter  with  him. 

"  And  if  there's  law  in  the  British  Empire,"  he 
added,  his  voice  shaking  a  little,  "  I'll  have  her  freed 
from  you." 

"  Don't  buoy  yourself  up  with  false  hopes,  sir," 
began  Carolan;  but  the  Governor  interrupted  him. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  257 

"  I  must  hope,   Carolan !     There  will  be  ways  — 
there  must  be  —  all  the  interest  the  family  has  got  — 
Lord  Lillaby  — " 

"  Well!  "  said  Carolan,  and  walked  away,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  My  father-in-law  was  about  to  leave, 
having  said  his  say;  but  I  stopped  him. 

"  Sir,"  I  said,  "  you  have  spoken ;  now,  it's  my 
turn.  I  killed  Sanderson;  everyone  knows  that.  I'm 
not  sorry  for  it :  but  I  never  expected  your  daughter 
to  understand,  and  —  I'd  have  kept  it  from  her  all  her 
life,  if  I  could.  I  didn't  suppose,  either,  at  the  time, 
that  I  was  putting  myself  in  peril  of  what  has  hap- 
pened —  there  was  no  law  to  speak  of  in  the  old  days 
here  —  but  if  I'd  known  that  this  was  really  hanging 
over  me,  I'd  have  put  a  bullet  through  my  head  before 
I'd  have  dared  to  look  at  her." 

I  stopped  a  moment ;  it  was  hard  to  speak.  Wilks 
waited.  The  Governor  waited.  The  honey-birds 
fluttered  and  twittered  in  the  doorway  against  the 
blue :  the  hot  wind  beat  in  the  eucalyptus  trees. 

"  I  want  you  to  believe,"  I  went  on,  "  that  I'd  free 
her,  now,  if  I  could.  You  may  do  anything  you 
wish;  I'll  not  oppose  you,  and  I'll  never  —  try  — 
to  see  her  again  — " 

I  had  to  stop  a  second  time. 

"  I  have  a  message,"  I  said  presently,  speaking  with 
some  difficulty  now,  for  I  seemed  strangely  short  of 
breath.  "Will  you  give  it  to  her?" 

"  It  will  make  no  difference,  I  warn  you,"  said  the 
Governor,  coldly. 

"  It's  not  meant  to,"   said  I.     "  You  will  tell  her 


258  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

this,  if  you  please,  from  her  husband  —  She  vowed, 
before  the  altar  of  the  God  she  believes  in,  to  keep  to 
me  for  better  or  worse,  till  death.  The  worst  came, 
and  she  failed  me.  She  may  have  been  right  accord- 
ing to  her  lights  and  yours  —  I  don't  know  —  but  I 
shall  not  forgive  her  —  living  —  or  dead  —  or  in  the 
hereafter,  if  there  is  one.  Tell  her  that  —  and  go." 
I  do  not  know  how  he  went,  for  the  red  fit  was 
on  me,  and  for  the  moment  I  could  scarcely  breathe 
or  see.  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  alone  with  the 
jailer.  I  stretched  out  my  wrists  for  the  handcuffs, 
without  a  word,  and  went  away. 

•  •  •••••• 

I  can  write  no  more. 


PART  II 
STEPHANIE'S  STORY 

CHAPTER  XII 

TF  I  had  not  gone  into  the  church,  that  spring  after- 
•"•   noon,  it  would  never  have  happened. 

Spring-time  is  so  hard,  when  you  are  unhappy.  It 
was  spring  just  then ;  the  parks  were  green,  and  there 
were  lilac-buds  peeping  out  between  the  bars  of  the 
squares.  I  used  to  wonder,  walking  under  the  sweet 
bunches  of  the  blossom,  how  many  people  hated  them 
in  spite  of  all  their  beauty  —  as  I  did.  You  may  for- 
get about  miserable  things  more  or  less,  in  the  summer 
and  the  winter;  but  in  the  spring,  when  you  see  the 
green  leaves  breaking  out  again,  and  the  laburnum 
turning  gold  again,  and  the  lilac  buds  coming  out  — 
again  —  while  you  are  still,  still  unhappy  —  you  hate 
the  innocent  flowers  so  much  that  you  could  break 
them  down  and  trample  on  them.  I  can't  explain: 
I  am  not  clever  —  but  I  know  it  to  be  true. 

That  afternoon,  the  lilacs  were  just  beginning  to 
bud;  I  saw  them  pushing  their  tiny  pale  points  of 
blossom  up  through  the  leaves  as  I  walked  across 
Haviland  Square;  and  if  every  point  had  been  a 
needle,  and  every  needle  turned  against  my  heart,  they 
could  not  have  hurt  me  more. 

259 


2<5o  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

It  was  the  tenth  spring  since  the  days  of  my  trouble, 
and  I  wondered,  that  day,  if  the  old  pain  was  going  to 
come  back  again  every  spring,  for  thirty  or  forty  years 
more,  or  whether  it  would  wear  me  out  sooner.  I 
hoped  it  would. 

No  one,  of  course,  is  unhappy  all  the  time.  Since 
I  spoiled  my  life  for  good,  long  ago  in  New  Guinea, 
I  had  had  quite  a  fair  share  of  happy  days  —  when  I 
was  taking  care  of  my  dear  father,  in  the  years  be- 
fore he  died;  when  I  was  traveling  with  my  aunt, 
Lady  Lillaby,  on  the  Continent,  and  seeing  many  won- 
derful and  beautiful  sights  (though  nothing,  I  think, 
as  beautiful  as  the  land  I  had  left  forever)  — when 
I  was  ill,  most  of  all,  as  I  was  once,  and  could  not 
think  or  trouble  about  anything.  That  was  happi- 
ness,—  or  peace.  I  suppose  they  are  the  same. 

Many  of  my  happy  days  had  been  given  me  by 
Walter,  who  followed  us  to  England,  and  settled  down 
to  practice  at  the  Bar,  and  who  was  always,  always 
kind.  .  .  .  Poor  Walter!  when  I  thought  how 
his  life  had  been  spoiled  (for  I  knew  he  had  remained 
unmarried  because  of  me)  it  hurt  me  worse  than  my 
own  loneliness.  He  had  done  everything  for  me  that 
a  true  friend  could  do.  He  kept  the  whole  miserable 
story  out  of  the  papers,  home  and  colonial, —  how,  I 
do  not  know,  but  I  was  most  thankful,  for  it  saved  me 
from  talk  that  I  could  not  have  endured.  Papa,  be- 
sides, had  such  hopes  of  getting  me  set  free,  that  he 
would  not  allow  me  to  use  any  name  but  Hammond. 
And  when  he  found,  after  consulting  ever  so  many 
London  lawyers,  that  there  was  not  the  least  hope  of 


WHEN.  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  261 

breaking  the  marriage,  it  seemed  too  late  to  begin 
explanations.  For  myself,  I  did  not  care.  I  nearly 
went  mad  with  wretchedness  during  that  long  voyage 
home  (the  passengers  thought  I  was  broken  down 
with  New  Guinea  fever,  and  as  I  really  had  had  an 
attack,  I  let  them  think  so) — and  for  months  and 
months  I  only  wanted  to  be  let  die. 

I  used  to  kneel  against  my  bed  at  night,  trying  to 
say  my  prayers,  but  all  I  could  say  was  — "  I  have  got 
to  live  —  oh,  I  have  got  to  live !  "  And  I  could  not 
even  fall  into  a  decline,  as  they  do  in  books.  I  grew 
thin  and  nervous,  and  lost  some  of  my  looks,  but  I 
was  able  to  dress  and  dance,  and  go  to  parties,  just  as 
I  had  done  two  years  before,  when  I  had  never  seen 
New  Guinea,  or  got  my  heart  broken.  My  aunt,  Lady 
Lillaby,  Walter,  and  Papa,  were  the  only  people  who 
knew,  and  they  all  insisted  on  my  going  out.  I  used 
to  dance  all  night,  in  those  years,  dance  myself  tired, 
and  take  away  the  other  girls'  admirers,  and  not  mind 
at  all  —  I  did  not  care  for  anyone  else's  troubles  — 
why  should  other  people  not  suffer,  when  I  did? 
Then  I  would  go  home,  and  my  maid  would  come  up 
and  unhook  my  dress,  and  I  would  begin  to  think  of 
another  maid,  thousands  of  miles  away  —  Tararua, 
the  half -naked  New  Guinea  girl  with  the  red  flowers 
in  her  hair,  who  used  to  bring  me  notes,  and  tell  me 
news.  .  .  . 

When  Dickenson  had  gone,  I  would  drop  down  on 
the  hearth-rug  beside  the  dying  ashy  fire  left  for  me 
to  undress  by,  and  cry  myself  nearly  ill.  And  in  the 
rain  beating  outside  the  tight-shut  window-panes,  and 


262  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  cold  London  wind  roaming  among  black  roofs 
and  lonely  spires,  I  would  hear,  again  and  again,  those 
words  spoken  long  ago  under  the  jeweled  skies  of 
Papua,  above  Port  Moresby  Bay.  .  .  .  "I  killed 
him."  .  .  . 

And  the  last,  dreadful  message,  brought  me  by  my 
father  — 

"  I  shall  not  forgive  her,  living,  or  dead,  or  in  the 
hereafter." 

Hugh  had  said  that  —  Hugh,  who  would  have  been 
tortured  to  death  to  save  me  a  moment's  pain  — 
once.  .  .  .  But  that  was  the  other  Hugh,  who  ex- 
isted no  longer.  The  other  was  not  a  murderer  — 
(as  I  put  it  to  myself  in  those  days).  The  other  had 
not  been  married  to  a  black.  The  other  was  just  the 
best  and  bravest  and  most  loving  heart  in  all  the  world, 
and  I  would  have  died  for  him.  ,  „  . 

That  hanging  by  a  broken  thread,  what  torture  it  is ! 
The  Hugh  who  never  was,  disturbed  me  more  than 
the  Hugh  who  really  existed.  I  used  to  find  myself 
helplessly  thinking  that  I  would  tell  him  how  unhappy 
I  was,  and  that  it  would  all  be  right  —  he  was  my 
special  providence,  always  able  to  come  to  my  aid, 
and  eager  to  do  it.  And  then,  with  a  horrible  wrench, 
I  would  realize  that  it  was  he  himself  who  was  the 
trouble,  and  nobody,  not  even  God,  could  make  things 
as  they  were  before.  Hugh  would  never,  never  help 
me  again. 

If  he  had  not  sent  that  message,  and  if  I  had  not 
gone  away  knowing  that  his  love  was  turned  to  hate, 
I  might  —  I  might  —  I  do  not  know  what  I  might 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  263 

not  have  done  —  later,  when  he  was  free,  and  I  was 
older,  and  knew  more  of  the  world.  The  shock  of 
hearing  that  he  had  killed  the  man  who  carried  away 
his  native  wife,  came  upon  me  so  suddenly  that  I 
had  no  time  to  think.  I  was  only  terrified.  I  had 
always  felt  that  there  was  something  untameable, 
formidable,  even,  in  my  lover  —  something  that  made 
other  men  fear  him;  perhaps  I  did  not  love  him  the 
less  for  that.  But  when  it  suddenly  leaped  into  day- 
light, and  showed  him  red  with  slaughter,  I  cowered 
away  before  it.  It  was  the  natural  impulse  of  a  young 
and  innocent  girl,  whose  life  had  been  sheltered  from 
every  wind  that  blew.  It  might,  as  I  say,  have  worn 
out  with  time,  and  given  way  to  the  passionate  love 
I  still  felt  for  Hugh,  had  I  only  been  sure  that  good 
or  bad,  bond  or  free,  he  cared  for  me. 

But  he  hated  me.     He  had  said  as  much. 

And  Papa,  and  Walter,  and  Aunt  Lillaby,  all  took 
it  so  much  for  granted  that  I  never  could  wish  to  see 
him  again.  And  I  let  them  do  as  they  liked,  for  I 
was  heart-sick  —  life-sick. 

I  am  sure  we  all  thought  that  "  something  would 
happen."  It  seemed  unbelievable  that  year  after  year 
would  go  by,  and  make  no  change,  except  for  the 
death  of  dear  Papa  —  that  I  should  go  to  live  with 
my  aunt,  and  continue  going  out,  and  traveling,  and 
reading,  and  hearing  concerts,  and  seeing  Walter  al- 
most every  day  —  that  I  should  get  older  and  older, 
and  less  and  less  miserable  (except  in  those  dreadful 
days  of  spring),  and  that  still,  still,  still,  nothing  would 
happen!  Papa  and  Aunt  Florence  had  thought  the 


264  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

marriage  would  be  got  rid  of  somehow  —  that  it 
would  be  found  illegal,  or  that  Hugh's  native  wife 
would  reappear,  since  he  had  not  actually  seen  her 
drown,  or  that  Hugh,  when  he  was  free,  might  at 
least  get  a  separation  order  —  which  I  understand  he 
could  have  done,  though  I  could  not.  As  for  Wal- 
ter, I  am  afraid  he  counted  on  the  chances  of  the  New 
Guinea  climate,  and  the  unhealthiness  of  prison  life 
' — later,  on  the  wild  inland  tribes  and  the  dangers  of 
the  coasts  —  to  free  me.  For  myself,  I  counted  on 
.  .  .  I  never  quite  cared  to  acknowledge  what. 
But  we  were  both  alive,  and  soon,  both  free  .  .  . 
and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  so  much  love  could 
altogether  die. 

But  we  all  counted  fruitlessly,  in  our  separate  ways. 
Nothing  happened  —  nothing  ever  happened.  I  was 
Stephanie  Hammond  to  all  my  friends,  Stephanie 
Lynch  to  myself,  at  the  end  of  nine  years,  just  as  be- 
fore. I  had  worn  through  one  gold  chain,  and  marked 
another,  carrying  a  little  plain  ring,  that  no  one  ever 
saw,  round  my  neck,  under  my  dress.  My  girl 
friends  were  happily  married,  nearly  all,  and  they  had 
children,  darling  children  —  three,  four,  five,  six  of 
them  sometimes  —  little  boys  of  seven  or  eight,  with 
manly,  brave  faces,  and  fine  strong  limbs  —  dear  tiny 
girls  of  two  and  three  —  little  babies,  so  soft  and 
lovesome.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  I  don't  know  if  my  friends  ever  suspected 
why  I  would  not  play  with  their  little  ones.  I  do 
not  think  they  did;  they  seemed  to  suppose  that  I  did 
not  care  for  children.  I  let  them  think  so. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  265 

And  my  thirtieth  birthday  came  and  I  was  not  a 
girl  any  more.  I  had  not  lost  my  looks;  if  I  had 
doubted  that,  the  little  incidents  that  used  to  occur 
now  and  then,  when  men  were  stupid  and  would  not 
understand,  would  have  reassured  me.  But  I  began 
to  feel  in  a  way  I  could  scarcely  explain,  that  the 
world  belonged  to  others.  It  does  belong  to  girls  — 
one  takes  that  quite  naturally,  while  one  is  still  a  girl ; 
but  once  thirty  is  past,  it  comes  with  something  of  a 
shock  to  realize  that  your  inheritance  had,  somehow  or 
other,  slipped  out  of  your  hands.  .  .  .  You  don't 
want  the  world  to  belong  to  you,  of  course,  and  yet 
somehow,  you  miss  it,  when  it  does  not,  any  more. 

So  it  came  to  the  afternoon  when  the  lilacs  were 
out,  and  I  was  unhappy  because  of  spring. 

There  is  a  church  at  the  corner  of  the  square :  it  is 
gray  and  black  and  ugly,  but  it  has  a  shining  gold 
cross  on  the  spire,  pointing  to  heaven.  I  saw  the 
cross  as  I  came  up  the  square,  and  it  seemed  to  call 
to  me.  I  opened  the  little  swing  door  in  the  middle  of 
the  big  one,  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  Catholic  church.  My  mother  was  a  Cath- 
olic, and  I  have  always  had  a  love  for  Catholic  things 
and  people,  because  of  her.  The  church  pleased  me. 
There  was  a  cool  twilight  under  the  great  nave,  and 
little  stars  of  candles  twinkled  somewhere  away  at 
the  far  end.  Soft  muffled  echoes  came  and  went  as 
people  swung  the  padded  doors;  the  scent  of  the  sun- 
shine and  the  spring  would  flow  in  for  a  moment 
through  the  opening,  and  then  it  would  be  dark  and 


266  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

quiet  again,  with  the  smell  of  cold  incense  in  the  air, 
and  the  sound  of  the  traffic  faint  and  far  away. 

Hardly  anyone  was  about  —  just  one  or  two  peo- 
ple praying  near  the  high  altar,  and  a  nun  in  a  black 
habit  kneeling  in  a  side  chapel.  I  saw  her  face  as  she 
prayed;  it  was  not  pale  and  ecstatically  beautiful,  as 
people  draw  the  faces  of  nuns  in  pictures,  only  round 
and  pink  and  commonplace,  and  rather  plain  —  but  it 
was  full  of  peace. 

-Standing  near  her,  and  looking  about  the  church 
(nothing  was  new  to  me,  for  I  had  often  been  in 
Catholic  churches  before)  I  was  seized,  all  in  a  mo- 
ment, with  an  indescribable  weariness.  To  me,  whose 
life  was  poisoned  with  unrest,  that  look  of  peace  was 
as  the  gleam  of  water  very  far  away,  to  one  who  lies 
perishing  of  thirst  in  a  desert. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  by  and  by,  and  went  over 
to  one  of  the  confessional  boxes,  her  flat  shoes  clap- 
ping on  the  pavement,  her  veil  floating  back  above  a 
high  ungraceful  forehead  and  over- full  round  cheeks. 
.  .  .  For  a  moment,  I  saw  my  own  face  as  in  a 
glass,  and  I  knew  it  to  be  worn  and  bitter  and  unlovely 
beside  that  of  the  nun,  though  I  have  what  men  call 
beauty. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  only  one  thing  in 
the  world  I  could  possibly  do.  .  .  .  I  sat  down 
on  a  chair,  and  waited. 

The  nun  went  away,  and  I  lifted  the  curtain,  and 
knelt  in  her  place.  The  priest  had  his  ear  to  the  lat- 
tice; I  could  see  his  wrinkled  cheek  and  his  soft  white 
hair  as  I  spoke. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  267 

I  told  him  I  was  not  a  Catholic,  and  had  not  come 
to  confess,  but  that  I  was  very,  very  unhappy,  and 
that  I  would  give  all  the  world  to  be  a  nun.  And  I 
asked  him  what  I  was  to  do. 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  surprised.  He  threw 
a  glance  at  me  through  the  lattice  —  I  saw  his  face 
then,  and  it  seemed  old  and  gentle,  and  very  wise. 
He  told  me  that  he  could  not  talk  to  me  there,  but 
that  I  had  better  come  to  the  presbytery  next  day, 
and  see  him.  Then  he  said  good-by,  and  blessed  me, 
and  asked  me  to  pray  for  him. 

There  is  not  much  to  tell  about  Father  Ferrer.  I 
met  him  only  twice  —  that  day  and  the  day  after. 
But  of  what  he  did,  there  is  a  great  deal  to  tell,  for 
he  changed  all  my  life. 

Next  day  I  went  to  the  presbytery.  I  had  to  wait 
a  little  while  in  the  parlor  before  he  came.  It  was  a 
neat  little  room,  waxed  and  clean  and  cold,  with  pic- 
tures of  saints  on  the  wall,  and  a  "  Souvenir  of 
Lourdes  "  on  the  center  table,  arranged  in  a  triangle 
with  two  books  of  Meditations. 

One  heard  the  noise  of  London  very  faintly,  for  the 
window  looked  out  upon  a  graveled,  shut-in  back  gar- 
den, where  trees  were  growing  green  within  black 
walls,  and  sparrows  chirped  and  flew.  There  was 
not  a  sound  within  the  house  itself,  and  nothing  in  the 
little  room  seemed  ever  to  have  been  disturbed,  or 
ever  to  need  cleaning.  ...  A  peaceful,  cloistral 
spot,  wherein  the  only  jarring  note  was  —  myself. 

Yes,  of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt.  There  was 
a  tall  glass- fronted  bookcase  in  the  corner,  which  re- 


268  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

fleeted  my  figure  almost  like  a  mirror.  I  had  dressed 
for  the  afternoon,  since  I  was  to  go  out  with  my  aunt 
later  on,  and  my  dress  of  blue  chiffon  and  white  Span- 
ish lace,  daringly  touched  with  rose,  and  topped  by 
a  toque  of  roses,  looked  the  very  uniform  of  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  I  must  confess  to 
loving  my  clothes  —  they  were  certainly  more  of  a 
consolation  to  me  during  those  nine  years  than  any  of 
the  machine-made  philanthropic  schemes  into  which 
Aunt  Florence  dragged  me,  by  way  of  distraction; 
and  I  am  sure  they  gave  quite  as  much  pleasure  to  the 
world  in  general.  But  that  afternoon,  I  felt  I  would 
rather  have  had  a  black  veil  on  my  head  than  any  of 
Desiree's  masterpieces,  and  the  dainty  pink  petticoat 
that  showed  itself  just  above  one  Louis  shoe,  almost 
seemed  —  improper  —  when  I  thought  of  the  nun  in 
her  simple  woolen  robe. 

A  bunch  of  frivolities  —  a  bouquet  of  artificial 
flowers  —  an  embittered  woman,  taking  to  dress  as 
to  drink,  that  she  might  still  the  aching  of  an  empty 
heart  —  so  I  saw  myself  in  the  glass.  And,  as  I  had 
wondered  about  the  lilac  the  day  before,  I  wondered 
now  —  to  how  many  exquisitely-clothed  women  in 
great,  unhappy  London,  were  their  pretty  things  just 
- —  drink? 

Sitting  there  in  my  Paris  dress,  beside  the  window 
looking  out  on  the  gray  and  green  little  English  gar- 
den, I  fell  a-musing  on  the  old  Papuan  days.  ...  If 
it  had  never  happened  —  if  Hugh  and  I  had  had  a  little 
house  in  the  forest,  and  lived  there  ever  since,  away 
from  all  this  world  of  dressing  and  dancing  and  keep- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  269 

ing  up  with  the  fads  of  the  hour  —  away  where  the  seas 
are  colored  like  the  gems  in  the  gates  of  the  Heavenly 
City,  and  flowers  never  fade,  and  birds  of  Paradise 
fly  like  crimson  comets  through  trees  that  are  always 
bright  and  green  —  where  life  is  long  and  simple,  and 
the  small  things  of  the  world  take  their  proper  place, 
and  the  great  things  —  friendship,  and  courage,  and 
love,  and  death  —  are  the  only  ones  that  matter  — 
if  I  had  lived  thus,  should  I  have  been  the  woman  that 
I  was? 

So  I  mused.  And  the  bitter,  handsome  face  under 
the  splendid  hat  looked  back  at  me  from  the  glass,  and 
answered,  "  No !  " 

Oh,  to  leave  it  all!  London  and  the  life  I  had 
grown  to  hate  —  Papua  and  its  memories  that  burned 
like  fire  —  everything  I  had  ever  known  and  wearied 
of  and  suffered  by  —  just  to  leave  the  world,  and  rest 
—  in  the  cloister  or  the  grave  —  but  rest ! 

.  .  .  "  My  dear  child,  I  am  afraid  you  are  very 
unhappy." 

He  wore  soft  shoes,  and  I  had  not  heard  him  enter, 
nor  had  I  seen  him,  for  I  was  leaning  my  face  on  my 
hand.  I  looked  up.  The  priest  —  Father  Ferrer,  as 
I  afterwards  learned  his  name  —  was  standing  beside 
me  —  a  small,  plump,  silver-haired  figure,  with  eyes 
that  were  extraordinarily  soft  and  shrewd,  and  a 
mouth  that  seemed  to  hold  all  the  wisdom  of  all  the 
world  in  its  humorous  corners. 

"  I  am  —  most  unhappy,"  I  said. 

He  took  a  seat. 

"  Well  —  what  can  I  do?  "  he  asked,  with  a  sort  of 


2/o  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

brisk  kindliness.  Somehow,  he  made  me  think  of  a 
doctor  of  souls  with  a  large  practice,  examining  a 
case. 

"  I  am  tired  of  the  world,"  I  said.  "  My  mother 
was  a  Catholic.  ...  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
any  objection  to  joining  her  church,  if  necessary.  I 
want  to  become  a  nun;  they  are  so  peaceful  and  happy, 
and  I  have  never  been  either." 

The  little  priest  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  gown,  and 
pulled  out  a  snuff-box.  Snuffing  with  relish,  he  re- 
marked: 

"  My  dear  lady,  a  convent  isn't  a  moral  casualty 
ward.  And  a  call  to  the  religious  life  is  not  granted 
to  everyone.  Pardon  me,  but  I  don't  think  you  show 
any  special  signs  of  such  a  grace  —  even  if  you  were  a 
Catholic  —  a  detail,  by  the  way,  of  some  importance. 

"  Suppose  we  keep  to  the  point  that  you  are  un- 
happy," he  went  on,  "  and  that  you  want  to  tell  some- 
one all  about  it:  well,  I'm  ready  to  listen  and  help  if 
I  can  —  very  ready,  my  child." 

His  small  round  face  creased  into  a  kindly  smile. 
I  liked  the  smile,  but  I  didn't  like  the  assumption  that 
I  was  a  slack-lipped  creature  who  could  not  keep  her 
troubles  to  herself  —  I  who  had  kept  my  own  secrets 
for  ten  years,  and  asked  help  from  none. 

"  My  troubles  are  —  my  troubles,"  I  said.  "  I  have 
been,  metre  or  less,  discontented  and  unhappy  for  ten 
years.  I  want  to  get  away  from  it  all  —  from  every- 
thing. Will  any  convent  take  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  little  Father,  still  smiling. 
"  If  you  wish  to  be  instructed  with  a  view  to  joining 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  271 

the  Church,  you  can  receive  instruction.  If  it  should 
appear,  eventually,  that  you  have  a  vocation  to  any 
special  order,  you  could  become,  first,  a  postulant, 
then  a  novice,  and  finally,  if  you  persevered,  a  pro- 
fessed nun.  That  is  all  that  anyone  can  say." 

It  was  not  quite  what  I  had  expected,  and  I  scarcely 
knew  what  to  answer.  Instruction  —  vocation  — 
these  were  new  terms  to  me,  and  they  left  me  cold. 
To  plunge  into  the  oblivion  of  the  cloister  as  one  might 
plunge  into  a  river,  and  for  the  same  reason  —  that 
was  all  I  had  thought  of.  It  seemed  that  this  was  not 
to  be  done,  and  I  began  to  lose  interest. 

The  little  father's  manner  changed.  He  put  both 
hands  on  his  plump  knees,  and  leaned  forward. 

"  My  child,  you  need  help,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
with  a  keenness  that  took  in  every  detail  of  my  ap- 
pearance. "  You  are  not  of  my  flock,  and  never  may 
be,  but  a  soul  is  a  soul.  Who  is  troubling  you  — 
you,  a  woman  cursed  with  beauty,  and  alone  ?  " 

It  did  not  seem  strange  to  me  that  he  should  know 
what  was  in  my  heart  better  than  I  knew  it  myself  — 
for  in  truth,  not  until  that  instant  had  I  understood 
that  the  name  of  the  greatest  difficulty  in  my  path  was 
—  Walter.  He  had  the  gift  of  inspiring  confidence ; 
I  answered  him  as  simply  as  if  I  had  known  him  all 
my  life. 

"  A  man  I  cannot  marry,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  ex- 
actly —  love  —  him ;  but  I  am  very,  very  fond  of  him, 
and  he  is  so  good;  you  cannot  think  how  good  he 
is—" 

The  priest  took  snuff  rather  sharply,  and  ran  an  eye 


272  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

over  my  face  and  figure.  Then  he  snuffed  again.  It 
was  almost  as  if  he  had  spoken,  and  I  answered  him. 

"  He  is  good,"  I  repeated  — "  only  —  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  it  hurts  me  to  see  him  unhappy  —  and  I 
grow  so  tired — " 

I  do  not  know  what  can  have  come  over  me,  for  I 
am  reserved  and  self-possessed  as  a  rule,  but  I  began 
to  cry.  ...  I  felt  frightened.  It  was  as  if 
someone,  something,  had  flashed  a  light  on  my  path, 
and  shown  me  an  unsuspected  precipice,  close  to  my 
feet.  I  did  not  believe  it,  I  fought  against  the  knowl- 
edge, but  it  forced  itself  home. 

"  I !  I !  Impossible !  It  could  never  have  been !  " 
I  kept  saying  to  myself,  in  a  kind  of  cold  horror. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  spoke  aloud,  but  if  I  did, 
Father  Ferrer  made  no  sign.  He  waited  till  I  was 
calm,  and  then  said  — 

"  This  man  you  cannot  marry,  my  child  —  he  is 
already  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said  faintly.  Was  my  secret  going  to  es- 
cape me  after  all? 

"  Then  ?  "  The  Father's  eyes  dropped  to  my  glove. 
It  was  thin  and  tight-fitting,  and  showed  the  outline 
of  my  hand. 

I  cannot  tell  what  spirit  it  was  that  moved  me,  but 
I  put  my  fingers  inside  the  collar  of  my  dress,  and 
drew  out  the  chain  that  held  my  wedding  ring.  I 
always  wore  it  —  why,  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  except 
that  I  had  a  curious  feeling  of  wickedness  if  I  took  it 
off.  While  that  bright  little  circlet  lay  on  my  breast, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  273 

I  felt  that  I  was  guarded.  .  .  .  Until  to-day,  I 
had  never  asked  myself,  from  what? 

The  priest  looked  at  the  ring,  hanging  on  the  front 
of  my  dress. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  are  not  a  widow, 
my  child?" 

"  No,"  I  said.  I  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the 
window,  struggling  for  calmness.  I  saw  that  my  se- 
cret was  all  to  be  told  at  last,  and  it  came  hard. 

I  looked  out  of  the  window;  there  were  a  few 
crocuses  outside,  lingering  here  and  there  in  the  brown 
beds  upon  the  tiny  lawn.  They  shivered  in  the  breeze 
of  late  afternoon.  I  saw  them  then  without  seeing; 
days  after,  I  remembered  them.  But  in  the  moment 
itself,  a  flood  of  old  recollections  swept  over  me  — 
the  wondrous  sunsets  of  Port  Moresby  Bay,  turning 
the  west  to  a  very  Armageddon  of  flaming  scarlet,  as 
the  swift  tropic  night  came  down  —  the  scent  of  mint 
and  sandalwood  and  f rangipanni  flowers  —  the  silver 
glowing  of  the  palms  beneath  the  moon,  on  the  slopes 
that  led  to  Government  House  —  the  gleam  of  a  man's 
white  suit,  that  used  to  glide  like  a  ghost  among  the 
eucalyptus  and  the  lemons,  when  midnight  lay  upon 
the  bay  and  town,  and  all  the  world  was  still.  . 

When  I  returned  to  my  seat,  I  had  put  down  my 
veil  over  my  face,  and  if  there  were  traces  of  tears 
on  my  cheeks,  they  were  hidden. 

Sheltered  by  the  film  of  gauze,  and  keeping  my  eyes 
bent  on  the  left  hand  that  lay  in  my  lap  beside  its  fel- 
low—  the  hand  all  empty  of  the  golden  talisman  it 


274  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

should  have  worn  these  many  years  —  I  spoke  at  last, 
and  told  the  Father  all  there  was  to  tell. 

It  took  a  long  time  in  the  telling.  The  sun  slipped 
low  down  the  smoky  garden  wall  while  I  spoke;  the 
grimy  sparrows  gathered  in  the  trees,  chirping  as  they 
chirp  when  day  is  on  the  wane.  Sitting  in  the  pol- 
ished, unlived-in  little  room,  I  felt  the  afternoon  grow 
chill,  and  saw  the  young  leaves  begin  to  tremble,  and 
the  thin  grass  shiver,  and  the  crocuses  shake  in  their 
sunless  beds,  beneath  the  bitter  wind  of  evening,  before 
I  had  made  an  end. 

Father  Ferrer  sat  silent  in  his  chair  all  the  while, 
his  keen  blue  eyes  glancing  now  and  then  at  my  face. 
When  I  had  ended,  he  leant  forward,  and  took  my  hand 
in  his. 

"  My  dear  child !  "  he  said,  very  kindly.  "  My  dear 
child!" 

I  was  not  crying  now ;  I  had  shed  all  my  tears  — 
but  I  was  trembling,  and  very  cold. 

Father  Ferrer  rose  to  his  feet,  and  rang  a  bell. 
Someone  came  to  the  door,  and  returned  almost  im- 
mediately, carrying  a  glass  of  wine  on  a  tray. 

"  Drink  that,  and  then  we'll  talk,"  said  the  priest. 

It  seemed  to  put  new  life  into  my  shaken  nerves, 
and  I  was  quite  myself  before  long. 

"  And  now,  my  child,"  said  the  good  old  man, 
gravely  but  kindly,  "  I  must  ask  you  if  you  realize  — 
though  I  fear  you  do  not  —  the  great  sin  of  which  you 
have  been  guilty." 

"  Sin !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  sin,"  said  the  priest     "  You  are  not  of  our 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  275 

church,  and  in  consequence,  you  have  not  had  the  help 
furnished  by  the  true  sacramental  grace  of  marriage. 
But  marriage,  in  any  church,  is  a  holy  and  a  binding 
thing.  You  took  most  solemn  vowsj  only  to  break 
them  —  you  wished  to  take  vows  of  another  kind, 
quite  as  grave,  which  would  have  been,  in  your  case,  a 
mere  mockery.  .  .  .  Child,  child,  how  did  you 
hope  for  happiness  or  rest,  in  a  life  that  had  gone  so  far 
wrong?  " 

I  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer ;  I  felt  half  stunned. 
Everyone  had  always  pitied  me  —  tried  to  compensate 
me  —  it  was  always  Hugh  who  was  to  blame.  I  in 
fault  — I! 

"  You  think  I  should  have  waited  —  stayed, — "  I 
faltered. 

"  I  do.  My  dear  child,  you  have  told  me  a  great 
deal  about  your  ruined  life.  What  about  the  life  you 
have  ruined  ?  " 

"  But  —  he  had  killed  someone  —  and  —  he  had 
been  married  to  that  native  woman  —  and  never  told 
me—" 

"  Granted.  From  what  you  say,  he  had  terrible 
provocation  for  the  crime,  and  he  had  been  fully  pun- 
ished for  it.  As  to  the  native  wife  —  well,  my  child, 
it  seems  you  knew  very  well  you  were  marrying  a  man 
of  violent  temper  and  unknown  history;  your  people 
objected  to  the  match,  and  you  defied  them,  and  in- 
sisted on  having  your  own  way.  When  the  draw- 
backs that  you  had  always  known  were  practically 
brought  home  to  you,  you  deserted  the  man  who  loved 
you.  Heartlessly  —  wickedly,  my  child." 


276  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  felt  as  if  stones  were  being  rained  about  my  head. 
I  wicked !  I,  who  had  been  the  darling  and  plaything 
of  everyone  all  my  life  —  Father,  Walter,  Aunt  Flor- 
ence, Hugh  himself  —  who  had  never  been  blamed  for 
anything  —  who  had  always  found  the  looks  and  the 
charm  that  Providence  had  been  pleased  to  give  me 
a  magic  shield  against  hard  words  or  harsh  judgments. 
.  .  .  But  to  this  wise  old  man  with  the  calm  un- 
worldly face,  I,  Stephanie  Hammond,  loved,  popular, 
and  pretty,  was  just  a  soul  —  a  sinful  soul  and  nothing 
more. 

Heartless!  Wicked!  Had  I  then  been  blind,  all 
these  years? 

But  he  was  going  on. 

"  I  think,  my  child,  it  was  not  so  much  his  crime  of 
shedding  blood,  as  his  foolish,  but  not  sinful  action  in 
having  formerly  married  a  native  girl,  that  was  the 
chief  cause  of  your  desertion.  Was  it  not?  " 

"  I  think  —  it  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  I  an- 
swered, very  low.  Indeed,  it  had  gone  hard  with  me 
to  think  of  that  black  wife,  dead  though  she  was.  It 
had  hurt  my  pride,  and  my  pride  was  always  the 
strongest  part  of  my  character. 

"  As  to  his  message,  I  take  that  to  have  been  the 
bitter  cry  of  a  wounded  man  —  no  more,"  said  the 
Father.  "  But  even  if  that  rash  vow  had  been  delib- 
erately meant,  and  intended  to  be  kept,  it  was  never- 
theless your  duty  to  have  offered  to  return.  Had  he 
refused,  you  would  then  have  enjoyed  the  peace  of  a 
conscience  satisfied  - —  which  peace,  my  child,  you  never 
have  had." 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  277 

"  Never,"  I  said.  The  sun  had  faded  altogether  from 
the  garden ;  clouds  were  darkening  the  pale  spring  sky. 
I  looked  beyond  the  blackened  walls,  and  saw  the 
gold  New  Guinea  sun,  and  the  palms,  and  the  sap- 
phire seas  —  so  far,  so  very  far  away, —  far  as  my 
youth,  my  love.  .  .  .  What  remained  to  me  of 
life?  How  could  I  unwind  this  tangle  that  held 
in  a  hopeless  coil  the  lives  of  all  who  were  dear  to 
me? 

Father  Ferrer  went  on,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  Do  you  know  whether  your  husband  is  still  liv- 
ing?" 

"I  —  I  think  so,"  I  said.  "  My  friend  would  have 
asked  me  to  marry  him  —  any  time  —  if  news  had 
come  that  I.  was  free.  He  has  never  told  me  any- 
thing —  but  I  am  sure  he  would  take  pains  to  find  that 
out." 

"  Will  it  cost  you  much  to  part  with  your  friend  ?  " 

"  To  part  with  him  ...  !  "  I  cried,  throwing 
up  my  veil,  and  looking  at  the  priest  with  dismayed 
eyes. 

"  I  see,"  said  Father  Ferrer,  "  then,  there  is  all  the 
more  reason  that  you  should." 

"  And  never  see  him  again !  "  I  said.  "  But  —  I 
have  no  fear  —  I  am  not  bad,  Father,  and  neither  is 
he." 

"  Let  him  that  standeth  take  heed  lest  he  fall,"  said 
the  priest.  "  Look  into  your  own  heart,  my  child." 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence  in  the  room.  I  do 
not  think  I  should  ever  wish  to  write  down  all  that 
passed  through  my  mind. 


278  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

After  a  while,  I  turned  to  the  priest,  and  said 
dully  - 

"What  should  I  do?" 

"  You  have  asked  for  my  advice,"  he  answered. 
"  I  give  it  to  you.  Leave  your  friend.  Communicate 
with  your  husband,  and  ask  him  whether  he  is  willing 
to  forget  the  past  —  as  you  are.  You  have  both 
something  to  forgive,  but  believe  me  —  believe  an  old 
man  very  near  the  grave  —  he  has  the  most.  .  .  . 
My  child,  we  are  both  tired  now.  I  hope  to  see  you 
again  soon.  Pray  for  yourself.  Pray  for  me." 

The  sunset  had  broken  through  the  clouds  at  last. 
Its  golden  light  fell  through  the  wide  uncurtained 
window,  full  upon  his  face,  and  I  saw  him  as  in  a 
glory  from  heaven,  while  I  said  good-by. 

.  .  .  Friend  of  one  day,  I  shall  see  you  again  — 
in  heaven! 

Father  Ferrer  died  that  night. 

He  had  long  been  ill  of  heart  disease,  but  no  one 
had  thought  the  end  to  be  so  near.  His  last  act  on 
earth  was  that  deed  of  kindness  done  to  me. 

I  heard  of  his  death  when  I  called  again,  a  day  or 
two  later.  Of  the  shock  it  gave  me,  I  need  not  speak. 
But  it  set  the  seal  on  my  already  half-made  resolu- 
tion. One  who  was  an  angel  in  heaven  had  coun- 
seled me  —  I  would  abide  by  his  counsel. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

T?OR  days  and  days  we  had  been  creeping  up  the 
•*•  endless  Queensland  coast  in  the  great  Australian 
liner,  leaving  parallel  after  parallel  of  latitude  be- 
hind us,  and  drawing  nearer,  with  every  revolution 
of  the  screw,  to  the  burning  equatorial  lands.  Every 
morning  the  winds  that  blew  through  the  open  ports 
were  warmer,  the  sparkle  of  the  sea  more  brilliantly 
jeweled;  every  night  the  stars  were  larger  and  softer. 
Venus,  rising  from  the  sea  at  sunset,  had  grown  so 
bright  that  she  flung  a  thread  of  silver  across  the  calm 
waters  of  the  Barrier  Reef.  As  yet,  she  cast  no 
shadow,  but  I  knew  well  that  when  the  New  Guinea 
boat  dropped  anchor  under  Paga  Hill,  I  should  see  — 
as  long  ago  —  my  silhouette  in  gray,  drawn  out  upon 
the  ivory  deck  by  the  queen  star  of  the  tropic  world. 

We  had  left  off  our  furs  at  Brisbane  —  it  was  June, 
mid-winter  in  the  South;  but  north  of  the  jacaranda 
tree  Australia  knows  no  cold.  Townsville,  Bowen, 
Mackay  were  passed,  strange  sultry  little  towns  dozing 
in  the  dust  under  turquoise  skies ;  the  coral  islands  of 
the  Great  Barrier  Reef  were  showing  right  and  left 
of  us  in  the  shallow,  milky-green  seas  —  bright 
bouquets  of  foliage  set  on  tablets  of  sand  like  snow. 
Muslins  were  in  wear  now,  and  white  suits ;  and  the 
punkah  swung  above  iced  fruits  and  dishes  at  table ; 

279 


280  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  the  many  New  Guinea  passengers,  at  last,  began 
to  wake  up  from  their  shivering  hibernation  in  shel- 
tered corners,  and  talk  Papuan  talk.  .  .  . 

How  well  I  knew  it  all!  What  an  overpowering 
perfume  of  past  days  it  held  for  me!  The  doings  of 
the  mysterious  Kukukuku  —  that  tribe  of  ghostly 
marauders,  whom  no  white  man  had  seen  in  my  day, 
and  who  were  still,  after  ten  years  (it  seemed)  no  less 
a  mystery  than  of  old  —  the  talk  of  gold  and  gold- 
mining  —  three  ounces  to  the  day  on  the  Yodda,  limit- 
less hopes  of  the  Waria;  rumors  of  El  Dorado  in 
the  islands  —  gossip,  one  might  almost  say  scandal, 
about  the  untraveled  west  and  center  —  who  had 
found  and  traced  out  what;  whose  name  was  un- 
justly attached  to  the  peaks  of  which  semi-explored 
great  range  —  pearl-shelling  in  the  East;  turtle-shell- 
ing about  the  Gulf;  what  toll  the  alligators  had  lately 
taken  in  the  way  of  stock  or  native  boys  —  who  was 
to  be  R.  M.  of  where;  why  someone  had  been  re- 
called, or  sent  out,  or  reprimanded  —  all  the  old  chat- 
ter of  the  old  days.  .  .  .  Was  I  indeed  in  the 
twentieth  century? 

But  with  it  all,  there  was  much  that  was  strange 
to  me.  They  spoke  of  white  women  and  children 
living  in  the  country;  of  churches,  hospitals  and 
stores;  of  three- weekly  steamers;  of  dances  and  pic- 
nics now  and  then;  of  many  Government  officials 
under  the  new  Australian  regime  —  and  they  spoke' 
not  at  all  of  head-hunting  raids,  of  schooners  seized 
and  white  crews  massacred;  of  cannibal  feasts  held 
defiantly  on  the  very  shores  —  all  of  which  had  been 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  281 

matter  for  almost  every  report  that  reached  my  father, 
years  ago. 

There  was  much  plantation  talk,  too,  and  this  was 
so  new  to  me  that  I  joined  the  most  talkative  group, 
late  one  evening  when  the  moon  was  up  on  deck,  and 
listened  quietly  to  what  they  said.  I  had  entered 
myself  in  the  passenger  list  as  Miss  Stephens,  for  rea- 
sons of  my  own,  and  no  one  knew  that  I  had  ever 
been  to  Papua. 

Great  tracts  of  country,  it  seemed,  were  now  laid 
in  rubber  and  coffee  and  hemp.  Fine  plantation 
houses,  served  by  troops  of  woolly-headed  "  boys " 
had  sprung  up  everywhere.  Tourists  —  tourists  in 
New  Guinea !  —  came  up  by  every  steamer  to  see  the 
plantation  country,  and  visit  the  mines,  and  study  the 
absorbingly  interesting  life  of  the  native  villages. 

.  .  Well,  in  my  day,  the  villages  would  have 
absorbed  them  —  with  the  aid  of  a  cooking  pot  — 
and  that  would  have  been  the  end  of  the  tour.  Truly, 
Papua  was  changed ! 

I  should  not  find  what  I  had  left  —  that  seemed 
clear.  Shouldn't  I  after  all,  find  what  I  had  come  to 
seek? 

Walter  Carolan,  on  the  day  when  I  broke  the  news 
to  him  and  to  Aunt  Lillaby  —  oh,  that  wretched  day! 
Shall  I  ever  forget  the  anger  of  consternation  of  my 
aunt,  the  white  dismay  of  my  dearest  friend!  —  Wal- 
ter had  told  me  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  Hugh  was 
living,  and  in  New  Guinea  still  —  whether  British, 
Dutch  or  German  New  Guinea  he  could  not  say.  He 


282  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

had  long  ago  arranged  with  an  old  friend  in  one  of 
the  missions  to  send  him  intelligence  of  Hugh's  death 
or  disappearance,  should  either  occur.  From  time  to 
time,  at  long  intervals,  a  postcard  had  come,  with  the 
words  "  no  news !  "  The  last  postcard  had  been  sent 
more  than  a  year  ago;  since  then,  the  missionary  was 
dead. 

That  was  all  he  had  to  say.  What  it  cost  him  to 
tell  me  even  so  much,  I  could  guess  only  too  well. 

Aunt  Florence  tried  hard  to  prevent  my  going,  when 
I  announced  my  intention  of  returning  to  New  Guinea 
to  find  out  what  had  become  of  Hugh  —  not  neces- 
sarily, of  course,  to  join  him.  Poor  aunt!  she  had 
been  very  good  to  me  all  those  years, —  my  own  tiny 
income  I  had  never  needed  to  touch,  and  she  had 
openly  expressed  her  intention  of  making  me  her 
heiress  eventually,  since  she  was  a  childless  widow, 
with  few  relations.  Walter  Carolan  was  a  connection 
of  hers,  and  had  certainly  some  claim  on  her;  but  I 
think  she  hoped  —  poor  aunt  —  that  both  claims  might 
be  united.  She  loved  him  dearly,  and  counted  him 
almost  as  a  son. 

I  think  she  was  really  more  grieved  for  him  than 
for  herself,  when  I  plucked  up  my  courage,  after  many 
weeks  of  secret  thought,  to  tell  her  of  my  resolve. 
She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that  fevers,  or  na- 
tives, or  alligators,  would  set  me  free  some  day  or 
other,  and  bring  about  the  fulfillment  of  her  wishes. 
Aunt  Florence,  dear  woman,  was  one  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned kind  who  tenaciously  believe  through  all  dis- 


WHEN  THE  RED.  GODS  CALL  283 

couragement,  that  "  two  and  two  will  always  make 
four,  if  only  one  cries  enough  about  it." 

Walter  himself  took  the  news  so  badly,  at  first, 
that  I  was  frightened.  I  almost  feared  he  would  do 
something  desperate;  I  had  never  suspected  him  of 
such  strength  of  feeling.  But  it  helped  me  to  see 
the  real  necessity  of  what  I  was  doing,  and  to  crush 
down  the  dangerous  compassion  for  him,  of  which 
I  could  not  but  feel  conscious,  in  those  days  of  dis- 
turbance and  emotion.  I  still  loved  the  memory  of 
Hugh,  but  — 

How  shall  I  put  it  ?  A  woman  is  —  a  woman ;  her 
heart,  sometimes,  will  turn  to  what  is  nearest,  while 
her  soul,  the  best  and  truest  part  of  her,  still  points 
like  the  magnetic  needle  steadily  to  its  own  pole.  But 
life  is  lived  more  by  heart  than  by  soul  —  more  in  little 
things  than  great. 

In  fine  I  felt  it  was  best  for  me  to  go,  and  Walter, 
though  perhaps  he  could  not  feel  it,  knew  it,  and  acted 
accordingly. 

It  was  he,  in  the  end,  who  helped  me  out.  It  was 
he  who  prevented  my  aunt  from  calling  in  a  Harley 
Street  specialist  to  examine  into  my  state  of  mind  — 
as  she  intended  —  who  stopped  her,  afterwards,  in 
full  career  for  the  office  of  a  Continental  railway, 
to  buy  Riviera  tickets,  and  carry  me  away  willy-nilly. 
He  could  not  prevent  her  sending  for  her  solicitor,  and 
altering  her  will;  but  that  I  did  not  care  about.  I 
had  enough  money  of  my  own  to  carry  out  my  in- 
tentions, by  dint  of  selling  out  a  little  capital,  and  I 


284  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

did  not  fear  the  future.  To  live  in  any  way  —  even 
to  suffer  in  poverty  —  seemed  better  than  the  dead 
stagnation  of  those  long,  long  years,  stifled  in  luxury 
and  ease,  yet  starved  of  growth,  of  usefulness,  of 
meaning. 

At  the  last,  when  my  outfit  was  bought,  and  my 
trunks  ready,  and  the  P.  &  O.  liner  that  was  to  take 
me  to  Sydney,  was  due  to  sail  next  day,  Walter  called 
to  see  me  alone.  I  had  scarce  had  time  to  speak  to 
him  during  those  last  few  days,  but  he  seemed  to  be 
taking  my  departure  better  than  I  could  have  hoped. 

That  day,  however,  I  knew  the  truth.  He  looked 
like  death  when  he  came  in.  He  sat  slowly  down  in 
his  chair,  as  if  he  were  tired  or  old  —  Walter,  who 
was  far  under  forty  yet  —  and  looked  at  me  with  eyes 
that  seemed  almost  too  wearied  to  be  sad. 

"  Stephanie,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  to  say  good- 
by." 

I  could  not  answer  him. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  not  see  you  off  to-morrow,"  he 
went  on.  "  I  don't  think  I  could  quite  stand  that, 
though  I  could  stand  —  parting  —  since  it  has  to  be. 
It  isn't  any  fault  of  yours,  my  dear,  but  you  are  rather 
cruel  to  men." 

"  *.     .     .     Is   it  good-by  ?     I  could   stand   that,    I 
guess,  but  I  can't  stand  what  you're  giving  me.     .     .     J 
It's  the  cruelty  that's  in  you  —  in  women.     .     .     ." 

Across  the  years  that  other  voice  came  back  to  me, 
speaking  in  almost  the  same  words.  .  . 

"  Oh,  Walter,  indeed  I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  never 
could !  "  I  cried. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  285 

"  No,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  those  kind  eyes  of 
his  shining  as  they  had  always  shone  on  me  —  as  they 
would  never  shine  again,  in  all  the  coming  years  — 
"  After  all,  you  know  — 

"  '  Why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 
In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ?  ' ! 

He  got  up,  and  began  to  walk  restlessly  about  the 
room. 

"  See  here,  Stephanie,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  that,  strange  though  it  may  seem,  I'm  —  almost 
—  glad  this  has  happened.  I  don't  think  Lynch  de- 
serves a  reconciliation,  I  don't  believe  he'd  ever  make 
you  happy.  But  you  will  feel  differently  when  you 
have  done  what  you  could  —  and  after  all,  something 
had  to  happen  sometime.  And  I  know  this  life  is 
nearly  killing  you.  Aunt  Florence  is  a  pretty  wearing 
sort  of  person,  though  you  never  would  allow  it,  and 
as  for  me,  well,  the  better  friend  I  am  to  you,  per- 
haps—" 

He  stopped,  and  began  fingering  the  geraniums  in 
the  window  stand. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  went  on,  looking  away  from  me, 
"  the  worse  I've  got  to  learn  to  live  my  life  without 
you  —  that's  all." 

It  seemed  much,  to  judge  by  his  voice;  his  face  I 
could  not  see,  for  he  was  still  plucking  cruelly  at  the 
geranium  buds  and  leaves,  and  casting  them  on  the 
floor. 

"  And  you've  got  to  learn  to  do  without  my  friend- 
ship. Well,  that  won't  cost  you  very  much,  I  dare  say." 


286  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

More  than  you  thought,  my  friend,  my  friend!  I 
was  made  so  that  I  could  give  love  to  very  few  — 
but  what  I  gave  to  you  was  almost  the  twin  flower  to 
the  flower  of  love  itself. 

"  In  short,"  he  went  on,  "  it's  best  to  break  — 
anyhow  —  but  break.  I've  helped  you  out,  because  I 
thought  so.  Not  because  I  didn't  care,  Stephanie." 

He  turned  round  now,  and  faced  me  as  I  sat  in  my 
chair.  It  was  a  warm  day ;  the  window  was  open,  and 
mignonette,  wet  with  a  recent  shower,  smelled  sweetly 
from  the  balcony  outside.  I  heard  the  humming  of 
motor-cars,  and  the  short  clip-clip  of  hoofs  on  the 
wood  pavement  below. 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could,"  he  said.  "  I  still  think 
it  a  wild-goose  chase,  but  I  know  of  old  what  it  is 
to  cross  you  when  your  mind  is  set  on  anything.  You 
wouldn't  have  me  write  letters  to  the  Government 
lot  — •  well,  I  have  got  some  for  you  to  present,  if  you 
change  your  mind.  New  Guinea  is  not  what  it  was; 
you  will  be  perfectly  safe  in  the  towns,  and  of  course, 
there  will  be  no  need  for  you  to  go  beyond  them.  If 
things  turn  out  badly,  your  aunt  will  be  only  too 
glad  to  have  you  back.  As  for  me  —  in  that  case,  I 
think  —  it  would  still  be  good-by,  Stephanie.  I've 
done  all  I  can.  All  I  can  —  now  and  forever."  He 
took  my  hands  in  his.  The  light  fell  clear  on  his 
dear  brown  eyes,  and  his  straight,  strong,  handsome 
features.  ,  .  .  Oh,  if  one  could  but  love  best  the 
best  man  one  has  ever  met ! 

"You'll  marry  —  won't  you,  Walter?"  was  all  I 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  287 

could  say.     I  wonder  was  it  very  little-minded  of  me 
to  feel  pain  —  as  I  did  —  at  his  reply  ? 

"  Yes,  I  hope  I  shall,  some  day.     I  shan't  love  her 
very  much,  whoever  she  may  be;  but  I'll  treat  her 
decently,  please  God.     It's  better  I  should  marry  — 
when  I  can  —  but  that  won't  be  just  yet.     And  now 
—  Stephanie,  my  darling  — " 

There  was  no  need  of  more  words.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  say  that  I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  clung  to  him,  crying  bitterly.  He  did  not  kiss 
me  —  he  never  had  kissed  me.  He  held  me  very 
tight  for  a  moment,  and  then  let  me  go. 

"  God  bless  you  —  God  bless  you,"  I  heard  him 
say;  and  then  the  door  shut,  and  I  dropped  back  into 
my  chair,  blind  with  crying. 

Next  day  the  Macedonia  sailed  from  Tilbury.  No 
one  saw  me  off  but  Aunt  Florence's  maid.  Aunt 
Florence  herself  had  a  headache,  she  said.  I  think, 
poor  dear,  the  truth  was  that  she  had  cried  herself 
nearly  as  sick  as  I  had.  We  parted  at  the  house, 
knowing  well  what  neither  of  us  cared  to  say  —  that 
come  what  might,  I  never  should  return. 

I  had  my  plans  clear  in  my  head.  I  meant  to  stay 
in  Port  Moresby  for  a  while,  under  my  assumed  name 
of  Stephens  —  simply  as  a  lady  traveling  for  pleasure. 
There  are  many  things  a  woman  of  thirty  can  do 
without  remark,  that  would  be  impossible  to  a  young 
girl.  While  there,  I  would  try  to  find  out,  secretly, 
whether  Hugh  was  living,  and  where  he  was.  I 
feared  the  thought  of  this  somewhat;  there  was  no 


288  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

knowing  what  he  might  not  have  sunk  to,  in  those 
lonely,  desperate  years. 

Yes  —  I  knew  what  Father  Ferrer  would  have  said, 
as  well  as  if  I  had  heard  him  say  it, — 

"  Whatever  he  is,  is  your  fault  —  yours,  who  left 
him  in  his  need." 

As  to  what  was  to  happen  after,  I  made  no  plans, 
knowing  that  circumstances  must  guide  me.  One 
thing  only  was  clear  —  I  must  find  him. 

I  had  no  wish  to  be  recognized  by  any  stray  ac- 
quaintances who  might  be  remaining  in  the  country, 
but  there  was  little  chance  of  that.  Ten  years  had 
changed  me  a  good  deal,  and  I  trusted  much  to  the 
effect  of  altered  fashions.  The  young  girl  of  one- 
and-twenty,  dressed  always  in  flowing  muslins,  with 
close  plaited  hair,  was  not  in  any  case  very  like  the 
society  woman  of  one-and-thirty,  who  wore  fashion- 
ably scanty  tailor-mades  of  linen  and  silk  and  holland, 
and  filled  up  the  brim  of  her  big  picture  hats  with  a 
"  halo  "  coiffure  as  big  as  a  melon.  .  .  .  No,  on 
the  whole,  I  did  not  fear  recognition,  especially  as 
there  was  scarce  one  of  my  former  acquaintances  left 
in  New  Guinea. 

That  night  on  the  Queensland  coast,  as  we  thrashed 
through  the  warm  black  water,  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  wild  uncivilized  lands  that  are  so  mys- 
terious and  so  cruel,  yet  so  compelling  in  their  sum- 
mons to  all  who  have  ever  known  them,  a  feeling  of 
rest  and  freedom  began  to  take  possession  of  me. 
The  P.  &  O.  voyage,  with  its  dressing  and  dancing 
and  bridge  playing,  and  its  society  sets  and  rivalries, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  289 

for  all  the  world  like  that  weary  London  I  had  left 
behind,  was  over.  I  could  forget  that  I  was  one  of 
"  the  best  people."  I  was  going  where  "  the  best  is 
like  the  worst " —  where  life  is  real,  naked  even,  and 
the  elemental  powers  of  nature  press  close  round  the 
little  strongholds  of  civilization.  ...  I  was 
afraid  of  it,  but  I  loved  it,  just  as  in  the  days  gone 
by  I  had  both  feared  and  loved  the  man  who  was 
so  completely  one  with  the  wild  places  of  the  earth. 
After  all  those  years,  I  felt  that  I  was  going  home. 

The  Red  Gods'  call !  It  was  what  Hugh  had  spoken 
of  that  night  among  the  lemon  trees;  I  had  not  un- 
derstood him  then,  but  I  knew  it  now  —  as  thousands 
of  others,  men  and  women,  must  know  it  all  the  world 
over.  We  women,  I  think,  hear  it  for  the  most  part 
through  the  voice  of  the  man  we  love  —  but  we  hear 
it.  Else,  how  would  England's  Empire  ever  have 
been  made? 

Next  day  we  reached  Cooktown,  the  last  Australian 
port,  and  took  ship  on  the  Port  Moresby  boat,  a 
smaller  vessel  than  the  Australian  coastal  liner,  but 
nevertheless  a  marvelous  improvement  on  the  wander- 
ing schooners  and  stray  cargo  steamers  of  my  day. 
Two  evenings  later,  near  to  sunset,  the  immense 
blue  coasts  of  Papua  rose  out  of  the  sea,  and  all  night 
long,  in  the  silence  and  the  dark,  we  ran  past  the  sleep- 
ing shores  of  the  Great  Unknown  Land. 

I  was  the  very  first  on  deck  next  morning.  The 
washing-down  was  just  over,  and  not  a  passenger 
was  to  be  seen,  as  I  came  out  of  my  deck-cabin  on  the 
starboard  side,  and  hurried  round  to  port.  .  . 


290  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Yes,  there  they  were,  the  magnificent  domes  and  ram- 
parts of  the  Owen  Stanley  Range  —  the  splendid  spire 
of  Mount  Yule  —  Mount  Victoria,  far  inland,  rising, 
wave  after  wave,  thirteen  thousand  feet  into  the  ice- 
blue  sky  —  the  huge  humps  and  saddlebacks  of  the 
inner  ranges,  peaks  without  a  name,  where  no  man 
yet  had  trod.  .  .  . 

From  all  I  heard  on  board,  it  seemed,  that  despite 
the  amazing  development  of  the  Central  and  Eastern 
provinces,  the  outer  divisions  of  Papua  remained 
much  as  they  had  been  ten  years  ago.  Much  of  the 
country  was  known  only  in  part ;  great  tracts  remained 
quite  unexplored.  .  .  . 

I  was  glad  to  hear  this ;  it  made  me  much  more  cer- 
tain of  finding  what  I  had  come  to  seek.  A  Ceylon 
of  the  Pacific  (which  I  had  almost  feared  to  find  in 
Papua,  after  all  the  plantation  talks  on  the  liner) 
would  never  have  kept  my  lover. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  we  cast  anchor  under  the 
shadow  of  Paga  Hill. 

Save  for  the  increased  number  of  houses  in  the 
township,  there  was  little  change.  The  peaky  goblin 
hills,  like  the  background  of  some  mediaeval  tapestry 
—  the  dark-leaved  mangroves  running  far  out  into 
the  water  —  the  palm-trees  circling  about  the  curve 
of  the  wide  blue  bay  —  the  stilt-legged  native  village, 
built  out  over  the  flaming  shallows ;  all  were  the  same. 
I  only  was  changed.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time,  I 
felt  the  cruel  wrench  that  one  suffers,  looking  on  the 
senseless  stones  and  paths  and  trees  that  saw  one 
young,  but  yesterday,  and  that  see  one  growing  old, 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALU  291 

while  not  a  crack  in  the  stones,  not  a  shade  of  green 
in  the  hills  is  altered.  .  .  O  changeless  Nature, 
how  cruelly  you  laugh  at  our  fleeting  lives  of  dust  and 
shadow ! 

Tears  filled  my  eyes  as  Government  House  came  into 
view  —  the  long,  white  house  above  the  coco-palms, 
where  the  little-girl  Stephanie,  who  was  dead  so  long 
ago,  used  to  come  down  the  hill  in  her  French  shoes 
and  frivolous  muslins,  to  meet  her  lover  under  the 
rubber-tree.  .  .  .  Unchanged,  that  forest-like 
mass  spread  out  in  the  little  valley;  ten  years  are  as 
a  day  in  the  life  of  those  giant  trees.  .  .  .  But 
little-girl  Stephanie,  who  had  known  and  suffered 
nothing,  what  had  you  in  common  with  the  tired, 
lonely  woman  who  watched  your  ghost  that  day? 

Ghosts!  the  whole  place  was  full  of  them.  When 
I  landed  from  the  steamer's  boat,  and  passed  along 
the  jetty,  I  scarcely  knew  whether  I  was  living  in  the 
present  or  the  past.  True,  Port  Moresby  was 
changed;  it  was  now  quite  a  fair-sized  little  town, 
with  several  big  Government  offices,  and  quite  a  num- 
ber of  white-washed  iron  bungalows  standing  on  tall 
black  piles,  instead  of  the  mere  handful  of  huts  I 
remembered.  But  the  grassy  streets,  the  green  over- 
hanging hills,  dotted  with  shrub-like  eucalyptus  trees 
that  never  seemed  to  grow  a  day  older  (I  used  to  say 
they  were  like  the  French  knots  in  a  piece  of  em- 
broidery), the  piecrust-colored  rocks  with  their  car- 
nelian  veinings,  the  dusty  red  pathways,  the  giant- 
headed  natives  in  beads  and  calicoes,  chewing  betel 
nut  in  the  shade  of  the  frangipannis,  the  hot  glare 


292  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

of  sea  and  sky  and  sun-beaten  earth  —  how  unchanged 
it  all  was ! 

Every  bit  of  waste  ground  about  Port  Moresby  is 
covered  with  wild  mint;  the  air  is  always  full  of  the 
warm  aromatic  scent.  I  do  not  know  that  I  had  ever 
taken  special  notice  of  it  in  the  old  days,  but  now, 
each  breath  I  drew  was  full  of  memories,  wakened  by 
the  odor  of  the  fresh  green  leaves.  .  .  .  Surely, 
by  and  by,  if  I  stood  upon  the  slope  and  watched,  a 
white-sailed  cutter  would  come  sweeping  into  the  bay, 
with  a  sailorly  figure  at  the  tiller  —  the  open  doof 
of  the  little  tin  house  on  the  beach  would  whiten  with 
an  emerging  figure  in  spotless  drill,  and  Somebody 
with  an  auburn  head  and  broad  shoulders  would  ap- 
pear on  the  shore,  and  begin  to  walk,  far  faster  than 
anyone  should  walk  in  Port  Moresby  under  the  full 
afternoon  sun,  towards  a  corner  in  the  track  that 
would  intercept  me  on  my  way  home.  .  .  . 

Home!  how  foolish!  that  white  bungalow  across 
the  bay  was  not  my  home  now.  It  was  the  home 
of  the  new  Australian  Lieutenant  Governor  to  whom 
my  letters  of  introduction  were  addressed  —  those 
letters  that  I  had  torn  up  and  cast  through  the  port- 
hole of  my  cabin,  the  night  after  we  left  Tilbury.  I 
might  have  saved  myself  the  trouble;  His  Excellency 
was  holidaying  in  Queensland. 

I  was  glad  that  he  was  away.  It  was  hard  enough 
to  know  that  the  dear  old  place  was  in  other  hands ;  to 
have  seen  it  occupied  by  strangers  would  have  been 
harder  still. 

I  had  engaged  a  room  at  the  hotel  —  but  I  was  in 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  293 

no  hurry  to  occupy  it,  not  much  liking  the  look  of  the 
place.  The  day  was  still  young;  I  put  up  my  sun 
umbrella,  and  started  for  a  stroll  along  the  beach  be- 
hind the  town,  towards  the  little  iron  hut  that  had 
once  been  more  interesting  and  attractive  than  any 
place,  to  me.  Who  lived  in  it  now,  I  wondered? 
and  did  he,  or  she,  or  they,  remember  the  former  oc- 
cupant ?  Probably  not.  From  all  I  had  heard  on  the 
ship,  there  was  not  a  single  one  of  my  former  ac- 
quaintances remaining  in  Port  Moresby. 

I  had  an  odd  sense  of  freedom  in  roaming  about 
like  this,  due,  I  suppose,  to  the  re-awaking  of  the  old 
New  Guinea  feeling  that  "  nobody  cared."  I  suppose 
there  never  was  a  country  in  the  world  where  every- 
one was,  and  is,  so  completely  free  to  do  what  seems 
good  in  his  or  her  own  eyes,  without  remark. 

Papua  seems  to  attract  strange  and  eccentric  charac- 
ters as  honey  attracts  flies;  independence  of  thought 
and  action  is  the  very  air  of  the  place.  In  any  other 
small,  out-of-the-way  community,  a  woman,  still 
young  and  not  unattractive,  well-dressed,  with  the 
manners  of  society,  traveling  unaccompanied  and  ap- 
parently without  object,  might  have  excited  a  good 
deal  of  comment.  I  knew  my  Papua,  and  knew  that 
I  should  not. 

The  little  cottage  stood  dozing  in  the  sun,  the  big 
palm-trees  above  making  penciled  shadows  on  its  roof. 
The  door  was  open,  the  place  apparently  empty. 
.  .  .  Should  I  venture? 

My  heels  made  a  clapping  noise  on  the  veranda  as 
I  approached  the  door.  Somebody  stirred  inside.  I 


294  WHEN.  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

hastily  prepared  a  sentence  asking  for  a  direction  to 
the  native  village,  and  waited.  The  door  filled  up 
with  a  massive  form  in  a  suit  of  pink  pyjamas,  and  a 
pair  of  white  sand-shoes,  and  an  elderly  man,  tall, 
stout,  white-haired,  and  amiable  of  countenance,  ad- 
vanced. 

I  knew  him  at  once ;  my  heart  gave  a  jump  that  al- 
most turned  me  faint.  It  was  Mr.  Worboise. 

Was  he  alone?     And  if  he  were  not?     .     .     . 

I  glanced  wildly  at  the  grove  of  palm-trees,  with 
some  mad  thought  of  running  away  and  hiding  my- 
self, but  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  that.  He  had 
seen  me,  and  —  he  knew  me. 

"  It's  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  said  quite  calmly,  as  if  I  had 
gone  away  about  a  week  before,  and  just  returned. 
Once  more,  I  realized  that  I  was  in  the  country  where 
no  one  ever  is  surprised. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Worboise,"  I  answered,  feeling  all  on 
a  sudden  one  enormous  blush.  ...  It  seemed  as 
if  it  were  written  in  letters  of  fire  on  my  forehead 
that  I  had  come  to  find  my  husband  —  my  husband, 
who  perhaps  did  not  even  want  me.  .  .  . 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said.  "  I'm  livin'  all  alone 
here  ('  Thank  heaven!'  I  whispered  to  myself),  and 
the  place  ain't  what  you'd  call  tidy,  but  you'll  excuse 
it.  Come  in,  come  in  —  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 

He  still  spoke  exactly  as  he  might  have  done  ten 
years  ago,  and  was  really  so  very  little  changed,  that 
I  felt  my  head  swimming  w.ith  confusion,  as  I  followed 
him  into  the  house,  which  I  had  once  or  twice  visited 
with  Hugh.  If  anyone  had  told  me  then  that  I  had 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  295 

just  waked  up  from  a  long  dream,  and  that  it  was 
nearly  time  for  me  to  hurry  back  to  Government  House 
for  tea,  lest  Papa  should  suspect  that  I  had  been  out  by 
myself,  down  to  the  beach  to  meet  Hugh  —  I  think 
I  should  have  believed  it. 

We  went  into  the  little  front  room,  and  Mr.  Wor- 
boise  gave  me  a  chair,  and  set  about  boiling  water 
over  the  very  old  Primus  lamp  with  the  broken  leg 
that  I  knew  he  had  had  ten  years  ago.  I  don't  know  if 
the  purple  trade  pocket-handkerchief  hanging  out  of 
his  pocket  was  the  same,  but  I  really  think  it  was. 
The  sound  of  the  sea-waves  creaming  on  the  beach 
below,  and  the  soft  singing  of  the  reef  far  away,  al- 
most made  me  cry.  ...  It  was  all  so  like  old 
days,  and  yet  .  .  .  ! 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  busying 
himself  with  tea-pot  and  pannikins  — "  and  'ow's  your- 
self?" 

His  accent  was  quite  as  terrible  as  I  had  remem- 
bered it,  but  it  did  not  annoy  me.  ...  I  have 
known  people  who  would  have  shrunk  from  a  mur- 
dered "  h  "  as  from  a  murdered  body,  yet  from  whom 
I  should  never  have  expected  one-half  the  delicate 
consideration  and  reticence  that  I  knew  might  be 
looked  for  from  Mr.  Worboise.  If  I  stayed  in  Port 
Moresby  a  year,  I  knew  I  should  never  be  troubled 
with  questions  from  him. 

"  I  am  very  well,"  I  answered.  "  I  have  come  to  re- 
visit New  Guinea,  Mr.  Worboise ;  I  had  a  fancy  to  see 
the  old  places  again." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  he  replied  rather  wheezily,  pouring  the 


296  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

water  into  the  tea-pot.  "  You'll  find  cHanges,  Mrs. 
Hugh  —  changes." 

I  was  so  terribly  afraid  that  he  would  begin  to 
speak  of  the  one  subject  that  really  interested  me,  that 
I  hurriedly  commenced  talking  of  the  political  changes 
that  had  occurred  during  the  last  few  years  • — the 
taking  over  of  the  colony  by  Australia  —  the  new 
land  laws  that  had  thrown  open  the  country  for  settle- 
ment —  the  number  of  planters  now  in  Papua  —  the 
rubber-boom  that  seemed  to  be  on  its  way. 

Mr.  Worboise  listened  to  me  patiently,  pouring  out 
the  tea,  but  made  no  remark. 

"  'Is  Excellency's  away,"  was  all  he  said,  when  I 
had  done.  "  I'm  afraid  there's  no  place  in  Port  where 
you'll  be  comfortable  like.  The  drinkin'  that  goes  on 
at  the  hotel,  when  the  schooner  fellers  come  in  to  'ave 
a  good  time,  makes  it  not  what  you  would  say  a  very 
heligible  place  to  stop." 

"  I  thought  so,"  I  answered,  "  but  I  really  didn't 
see  .  .  ." 

"  Why  not  come  'ere,  if  you  can  put  up  with  the 
likes  of  it,  and  me  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Worboise.  "  It  ain't 
much  of  a  place  but  there,  Papua's  Papua  yet,  in  spite 
of  the  la-di-da  plantation  crowd,  and  all  the  roughing 
it  ain't  over.  You'd  be  a  deal  quieter  'ere,  Mrs.  Hugh, 
and  that  little  room  at  the  back  ain't  too  bad  —  it  used 
to  be—" 

"What  a  lovely  view  there  is  from  the  door!"  I 
interrupted,  getting  up  hurriedly  to  look  at  it.  I  can- 
not say  I  saw  very  much  of  the  view. 

"  That  tea's  too  'ot  for  you,  let  me  put  some  more 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  297 

Hideal  into  it,"  observed  my  old  friend  calmly. 
"  Well,  to  go  back  to  what  I  was  sayin',  what  do  you 
think  of  comin'  'ere?  " 

There  is  no  Mrs.  Grundy  in  Papua;  both  of  us 
knew  that  I  could  stay  alone  with  Mr.  Worboise  as 
long  as  I  liked,  without  making  anyone  talk.  His  age 
and  character  were  sufficient  protection,  in  a  country 
where  the  absence  of  the  stone-walled  English  priva- 
cies insures  that  everyone  shall  be  known  for  ex- 
actly what  he  is.  I  have  often  thought  —  though  it 
is  one  of  the  things  one  would  not  care  to  say  to  the 
first  comer  —  that  "  virtue  "  is  necessarily  its  own 
reward  in  civilized  countries,  but  something  much 
more,  in  the  unbroken  lands.  There,  it  is  a  sort  of 
check-book  which  allows  you  to  draw  on  public  coun- 
tenance and  good  will,  without  question,  while  the 
"  fast "  or  dishonest  person  who  would  easily  pass 
muster  at  home,  finds  his  or  her  checks  dishonored. 
Both  then  and  later,  I  did  many  things  in  Papua  that 
would  have  set  every  scion  of  the  Grundy  family 
shrieking,  in  another  country  —  and  passed,  I  know, 
without  a  word  of  criticism.  If  Papua,  as  Hugh  used 
to  say,  is  the  country  of  the  Infinitely  Impossible,  it  is 
also  the  country  of  the  Finitely  Possible ;  and  therein, 
I  think,  lies  much  of  its  charm. 

Not  to  make  a  long  story  of  a  short  one,  I  may 
say  that  I  agreed  to  Mr.  Worboise's  proposal,  sent 
for  my  things,  and  took  up  my  quarters  in  the  quiet 
back  room  that  had  once  been  Hugh's.  There  was 
no  sitting-room,  but  as  all  Port  Moresby  lives  on  ve- 
randas, that  made  no  difference. 


298  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  arranged  to  pay  my  share  of  the  housekeeping, 
rather  against  the  will  of  my  kind  host;  but,  with  his 
usual  good-feeling,  he  gave  in  when  he  saw  I  was  bent 
on  it;  I  knew  that  the  little  annuity  on  which  he 
lived  (the  product  of  some  years'  successful  pearling, 
and  an  amazing  fit  of  prudence)  was  not  enough  for 
the  support  of  two,  and  I  feared  nothing  so  much  as 
to  become  a  burden  on  anyone  —  I,  who  after  so  many 
years  of  sheltered  dependence,  was  learning  at  last, 
slowly  and  painfully,  to  stand  alone.  .  .  . 


The  steamer  was  gone,  leaving  behind  her  the 
"  calm  after  storm  "  that  follows  the  call  of  a  ship, 
in  the  far-away  countries.  I  had  spent  a  day  in  the 
little  beach-cottage ;  it  was  sunset  now,  and  the  native 
boys  were  making  a  clinking  noise  with  the  tea-things 
in  the  cook-house  outside.  Above  the  roof  three 
leather-necks  mocked  and  clattered  in  the  palm-tops 
— "  Ki-ou!  Wee-ka!  Wakatipu!  "  just  as  they  used 
to  do  in  the  evenings  long  ago,  and  the  sea  was  turn- 
ing from  opal-blue  to  ink-blue,  over  Basilisk  Reef. 

Mr.  Worboise  and  I  were  sitting  in  canvas-chairs 
on  the  veranda,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  sundown. 
Neither  of  us  had  spoken  for  some  minutes ;  our  con- 
versation had  ranged  over  a  few  small  items  of  local 
gossip,  and  then  dropped  exhausted.  I  think  we  each 
knew  that  a  different  subject  was  in  the  other's  mind, 
unspoken. 

There  was  not  much  light  from  the  sky,  but  the 
hurricane  lamp  on  the  table  indoors  shone  out  across 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  299 

the  veranda,  and  by  its  rays  I  could  see  Mr.  Wor- 
boise  scanning  my  face  so  earnestly  that  I  felt  quite 
embarrassed. 

"  Am  I  much  changed  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  answered  earnestly,  "  I'd  not  be 
tellin'  the  'ole  truth  and  nothin'  but  the  truth,  so  'elp 
me  God,  if  I  said  you  wasn't.  When  you  was  here 
first,  you  was  a  young  lady  like  a  w'ite  rosebud. 
You're  a  lady  like  a  w'ite  rose  that's  open-blowed, 
now.  One  ain't  the  other,  but  one's  as  good  as  the 
other  —  and  maybe  better." 

I  said  nothing. 

"  And  maybe  better,"  he  repeated,  significantly. 
"  There's  things  people  comes  to  think  differently 
about  when  they've  'ad  —  but  law,  don't  you  mind 
my  gab,  Mrs.  Hugh,  I  ain't  askin'  questions,"  he  broke 
off.  "  Come  in  and  'ave  your  tea ;  I've  a  reel  nice  bit 
of  wallaby  'ind-quarter  for  you." 

And  during  the  whole  meal  he  avoided,  with  the 
most  scrupulous  care,  any  approach  to  a  comment  on 
myself  or  my  doings.  If  I  remember  rightly,  he  told 
me  a  good  deal  about  a  cannibal  tribe  of  the  far 
North,  that  had  lately  appealed  to  the  Government  for 
protection  from  its  neighbors,  on  the  grounds  that 
the  latter  committed  (I  think)  something  like  a  breach 
of  etiquette,  in  devouring  the  complainant's  relatives 
alive. 

'  Dyin'  was  only  what  a  man  had  to  do,  some 
time  or  hother ' — that's  what  they  said,"  Mr.  Wor- 
boise  explained.  "  Bein'  eat  was  a  thing  that  might 
'appen  to  anyone;  they  didn't  complain  of  that  neither. 


300  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

But  the  Orokiva,  they  said,  was  eatin'  them  alive, 
cuttin'  them  — " 

"  Mr.  Worboise  —  please !  "  I  entreated. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  'ear  it  ?  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Hugh ; 
I  didn't  think  you  was  sensitive  about  them  things, 
knowing  the  country  and  all." 

He  fell  silent,  and  the  meal  was  finished  without  a 
word.  Out  on  the  veranda  afterwards,  in  the  star- 
light, the  silence  still  continued.  There  we  sat,  we 
two,  who  had  loved  Hugh  better  than  anyone  else  in 
the  world,  one  longing  to  speak,  the  other  to  hear,  and 
yet  both  dumb.  The  mopokes  moaned  in  the  little 
strip  of  bush  behind  the  sand;  the  black  wings  of  the 
fly  ing- foxes  beat  now  and  then  like  sails  of  aerial  ca- 
noes across  the  silver  face  of  the  rising  moon.  The 
winking  lights  of  the  fishing  boats  out  on  the  reef 
died  one  by  one,  as  the  brown  folk  of  Hanuabada  and 
Elivara  ended  their  evening's  sport,  and  went  home. 
And  still  we  were  silent,  as  if  some  unholy  spell  had 
been  laid  on  both. 

Mr.  Worboise  got  up  at  last,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
and  I  rose  with  him.  It  was  bedtime.  We  turned  to 
go  into  the  house.  The  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  table 
inside  fell  on  both  our  faces,  and  we  saw  each  other 
clearly. 

I  don't  know  what  he  read  in  mine,  but  what  I  saw 
in  his  broke  the  spell  at  last.  I  could  not  bear  that  look 
of  bitter  disappointment.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
caused  enough  disappointment  to  all  who  cared  for 
me,  without  laying  that  burden  also  on  those  who  cared 
for  Hugh. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  301 

"  Mr.  Worboise,"  I  said,  summoning  all  my  cour- 
age and  forcing  the  words  out  — "  where  is  he  ?  " 

We  talked  till  long  after  midnight;  both  had  much 
to  say.     The  whole  story  of  Sanderson  and  his  fate 

—  the  tale  of  the  terrible  four  years'  imprisonment 

—  Worboise's  vain  attempts  to  gain  any  news  of  me 

—  his  conviction  that  Hugh  had  had  news  all  the 
time,  but  would  not  tell  it,  and  that,  whatever  it  was, 
it  fanned  his  anger  against  me  to  a  hotter  flame  — 
this,  and  much  more  (a  great  deal  more,  for  my  good 
old  friend  was  not  one  who  could  keep  to  the  point) 
Mr.  Worboise  told  me,,  out  in  the  dusk  of  the  star- 
light,  with  the  night-wind  blowing  down   from   the 
far-away  unknown  ranges,  and  the  mopokes  crying 
and  calling  over  Paga  Hill.     He  told  it  to  me  as  to 
one  who  had  a  right  to  know  all,  and  I  listened  with- 
out comment  for  the  most  part.     I  had  given  up  pre- 
tending to  myself  or  to  anyone  else,  now,  that  I  had 
come  to  New  Guinea  with  any  other  purpose  than  that 
of  being  reconciled  to  Hugh.     I  had  been  ashamed 
before  —  why  ashamed,  I  could  hardly  have  told ;  but 
it  certainly  was  the  case.     Now,  listening  to  the  tale 
of   Hugh's  truest   friend,   I  knew  that  my  husband 
needed  me,  with  a  greater  need  than  he  himself  could 
understand,   and   all   thought   of   injured   pride   died 
down.     Mr.  Worboise  told  me  of  bitter  words  that 
Hugh  had  spoken  against  me,  in  his  long  imprison- 
ment; of  a  nature  that  seemed  warped  and  soured, 
after  he  was  free  again;  of  the  hatred  that  he  showed 
to  all  women,  more  especially  the  white  wives  and  sis- 


3Q2  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

ters  and  daughters  who  had  by  this  time  begun  to  take 
up  their  residence  in  the  country;  of  his  life  in  the 
mountains  and  the  unexplored  interior,  growing  year 
by  year  more  lonely  and  self-dependent;  of  the  mes- 
sages received  by  Mr.  Worboise  at  long  intervals,  ask- 
ing for  clothes  or  cartridges,  or  tinned  goods  to  be 
sent  to  some  half-way  spot  where  his  boys  could  come 
down  and  take  them;  of  the  wandering  livelihood  he 
picked  up,  gold-digging,  sago-getting,  bird-shooting 
—  this,  and  much  more  he  told  me.  He  had  not  seen 
Hugh  for  two  years;  it  was  as  long  as  that  since  he 
had  come  down  within  the  limits  of  the  known  and 
civilized  country  —  and  in  the  interval  there  had  been 
no  news.  The  truth  was,  that  no  one  knew  where  he 
was. 

"  But  don't  you  be  took  down  at  that,  Mrs.  Hugh," 
added  Mr.  Worboise  earnestly,  "  for  there's  a  way  of 
findin'  out,  I  think,  and  I'll  do  everythin'  I  can  to  get 
at  it." 

Of  myself,  extraordinarily  little  was  said.  Mr. 
Worboise  did  not  seem  to  want  to  know  how  those 
ten  years  had  passed  with  me ;  it  was  evidently  a  mat- 
ter of  secondary  importance,  to  him.  .  .  .  Once 
more  I  was  made  to  realize  —  and  indeed,  I  think  it 
may  have  been  good  for  me  to  realize  —  that  I  was 
not  any  longer  the  center  of  the  universe.  The  tables 
were  turned,  most  truly.  If  Aunt  Florence  and  Wal- 
ter and  Papa  had  taken  my  view  too  exclusively,  cer- 
tainly Hugh's  friend  held  his.  I  was  simply  Hugh 
Lynch's  wife,  to  him  —  something  of  which  his  friend 
had  been  deprived,  but  which  it  might  be  possible  to 


give  back  to  him  —  and  should  be  possible,  if  any  ex- 
ertions of  Mr.  Worboise's  could  bring  it  about.  I 
really  believe,  if  he  had  thought  that  Hugh  would  tie 
me  up  in  a  cellar  and  feed  me  on  bread  and  water,  or 
serve  me  up  with  sago-sticks  and  pick  my  bones,  can- 
nibal-fashion, he  would  none  the  less  have  tried  to 
contrive  the  restoration  of  his  friend's  legal  property 
to  his  friend,  provided  that  he  was  sure  it  was  for  the 
good  of  Hugh. 

Somehow  or  other,  all  the  limelight  died  out  of  the 
affair  after  that  evening.  There  had  been  a  good  deal 
before;  I  had  felt  my  position  to  be  rather  that  of  the 
goddess  stooping  from  the  car  —  the  martyr  to  duty 
nobly  carrying  out  a  sacrifice  —  the  heroine  of  a  trag- 
edy coming  forward  to  the  footlights,  with  the  orches- 
tra playing,  and  the  audience  applauding.  .  .  . 
After  .  .  .  well,  I  had  not  thought  very  much 
about  that.  Whatever  happened,  I  should  have  done 
my  duty.  If  Hugh  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  me,  I  should  go  away  somewhere  and  devote  my 
life  to  good  works,  in  a  Sister  of  Mercy  sort  of  dress, 
or  perhaps  become  a  hospital  nurse.  If  he  wanted  me 
to  share  his  miserable  cottage,  wherever  it  was,  and 
reform  him  from  the  very  bad  ways  into  which  he 
might  have  fallen,  I  should  certainly  do  it.  In  either 
case,  I  and  my  duty  were  secure.  .  .  . 

But  Mr.  Worboise  didn't  seem  to  think  my  duty 
and  my  sacrifice  mattered  the  worth  of  a  pin's  head. 
The  limelight  and  the  orchestra  were  all  for  Hugh,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Well  —  I   swallowed  that,   as  I  had   swallowed   a 


304  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

good  deal  more,  and  went  to  bed,  to  sleep  a  little,  and 
think  a  great  deal.  Mr.  Worboise  kept  no  vigil,  at 
all  events;  every  corner  of  the  resounding,  little  iron 
house  had  ample  evidence  of  that. 

The  next  few  days  were  very  quiet.  I  had  devel- 
oped a  morbid  dread  of  being  recognized  by  some  stray 
acquaintance  of  old  times,  and  scarcely  left  the  house, 
except  at  dusk.  Mr.  Worboise  was  away  a  great  deal, 
asking  questions  here,  there  and  everywhere;  going 
down  the  coast  in  a  cutter  to  various  plantations  where 
they  obtained  labor  from  the  far  inland  districts,  and 
could  therefore  give  news  of  the  interior;  intercept- 
ing trading  schooners;  interviewing  Government  of- 
ficials. At  first  there  seemed  to  be  little  result.  The 
whole  country  was  mad  on  rubber,  and  no  one  seemed 
to  have  a  thought  to  spare  beyond  the  coastal  and 
nearer  inland  districts  where  the  money-bearing  trees 
could  be  planted;  the  unknown  interior  was  less 
thought  of  and  spoken  of  than  during  any  part  of  the 
past  ten  years. 

But  at  last  a  clue  was  obtained,  and  Mr.  Worboise 
brought  it  to  me  beaming  with  delight. 

"  A  gold  sovereign  to  a  red  'errin'  e's  in  the  Gulf 
country,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  declared.  "  We'll  find  'im 
soon  now,  you  may  be  sure.  Barnes  Peters,  the 
tradin'  firm,  they  says  they've  been  sellin'  stores  to  a 
Kiwai  what  come  up  from  the  West  in  a  white  man's 
cutter;  the  stores  was  white  man's  stores,  and  Barnes 
Peters'  manager,  'e  says  the  boy  lied  proper  when  'e 
said  that  the  stuff  was  for  a  Malay  tradin'  down  Oro- 
kolo  way;  there  ain't  no  such  feller  there." 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  305 

"  Where  do  you  think  he  is?  "  I  asked. 

"  I'd  put  my  finger  on  the  Purari  Delta,  if  you  ast 
me,"  answered  Mr.  Worboise. 

"  Can  I  get  a  letter  there?  " 

"  A  letter?  "  repeated  Mr.  Worboise  blankly.  "  A 
letter?  Was  you  thinkin'  of  writin'  a  letter,  Mrs. 
Hugh?" 

"Why  not?"  I  asked  nervously. 

"  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  answered,  breathing  heavily,  and 
fixing  his  round  eyes  on  me,  "  don't  you  trust  to  no  let- 
ters. You  know  'im,  and  I  know  'im,  and  we  both  know 
'e  ain't  all  milk  and  water.  'E's  been  nursin'  anger 
again  you  all  these  years,  and  if  you  write,  supposin' 
'e  gets  the  letter,  which  ain't  certain,  more  like  Vll 
tear  it  up,  and  stamp  on  the  bits  of  it,  rather  nor  an- 
swer it.  But  if  you  goes  to  him  personal,  'e  won't 
tear  you  up.  .  .  .  Not  likely,"  said  the  old  man, 
taking  a  long  look  at  me. 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  I  said,  trembling.  "  I  always  was 
afraid  of  Hugh,  and  I'm  far  more  so  now  —  and  if 
he's  angry  with  me,  how  could  I  ever  dare  face  him? 
Oh,  I'd  rather  go  home  again  —  and  yet  I  can't  go 
home  —  I  wish  I  could  just  die  and  have  done  with  it 
all!" 

"  Now  look-a-here,  Mrs.  Hugh,  don't  you  talk  none 
of  dyin',"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  earnestly.  "  It'll  be  all 
right,  you  take  my  word  for  it.  But  if  you  'aven't  the 
'eart  to  face  goin'  to  a  place  like  the  Delta  —  which  is 
a  bad  place,  I  don't  deny  it  —  and  if  you're  too  afraid 
to  face  'im  neither,  why  then,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I'll 
do  what  I  can  to  find  him  and  bring  him  back  myself. 


306  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

But  don't  you  count  on  it.  Seein's  one  thing,  readin' 
and  hearin's  another." 

There  was  a  pause.  ...  I  wonder,  does  God 
allow  his  angels  to  show  one  visions  sometimes  for 
our  guidance?  Waking  visions,  as  well  as  sleeping? 
I  think  he  does ;  I  think  I  had  one  then. 

I  saw  a  man,  no  longer  young  —  bitter,  hard,  and 
lonely,  half-savage,  living  in  a  lonely  palm-hut  among 
fierce  cannibal-natives,  without  friends,  without  help 
or  hope.  ...  I  saw  myself,  who  had  linked  my 
lot  with  his,  living  a  life  of  sheltered  luxury,  far  from 
him  and  his  troubles  —  hearing  him  constantly  blamed, 
and  defending  him  only  in  the  secret  tribunal  of  my 
own  mind  —  leaning  on  another  man  for  help  and 
comfort,  living  my  narrow,  little,  self-satisfied  life  of 
luxury  and  flattery  until,  pitying  the  friend  who  had 
so  much  of  life's  best  things,  and  pitying  scarce  at  all 
the  man  who  was  eating  his  heart  out  with  bitterness 
and  loneliness  in  the  New  Guinea  bush,  uncared  for 
and  unhelped,  he, 

"  Not  Lancelot,  nor  another," 

whom  I  had  loved  and  married  —  whom  God  had 
given  to  me. 

I  saw  the  two  pictures  as  clearly  as  if  they  had  been 
painted  on  the  wall  before  me.  I  saw  more  —  my 
duty.  Not  my  duty  to  myself  any  longer;  I  thought 
no  longer  of  that.  I  had  seen  my  duty  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Worboise,"  I  said,  "  I  will  go  with  you  and 
find  him." 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  307 

Sitting  on  the  narrow  deck  of  the  little  steam-launch 
Ela,  as  it  rocked  about  in  the  swell  of  the  dreaded 
Gulf,  I  looked  at  the  coast-line  ahead,  and  wondered 
if  I  could  still  be  in  Papua  —  Papua  of  the  fine  plan- 
tation houses,  and  rich  rubber  lands;  of  the  jeweled 
seas  and  enameled  skies;  of  the  stately  pillared  palms 
and  bright  coral  beaches.  I  had  never  imagined  or 
heard  of  anything  even  remotely  resembling  what  I 
saw  before  me ;  and  I  must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a 
sensation  of  something  very  like  fear. 

We  were  right  down  in  the  Gulf  country  now, 
among  the  uncharted  coasts,  and  the  unknown 
rivers,  within  touch  of  an  area  as  large  as  all  England 
wherein  no  white  man  had  ever  yet  set  foot.  A  little 
way  up  one  or  two  cf  the  rivers  —  a  few  miles  inland 
from  the  shores,  here  and  there  —  armed  expeditions 
had  cautiously  penetrated,  at  rare  intervals,  and  had 
returned  not  always  as  they  went.  Most  of  the  coun- 
try, however,  was  unvisited  and  unknown,  inhabited 
only  by  the  notoriously  wild  and  fierce  cannibal  tribes 
of  the  West;  and  determinedly  hostile  to  any  invasion 
from  outside. 

Mr.  Worboise  had  told  me  all  this  during  the  run 
down  from  Port  Moresby,  which  had  taken  the  best 
part  of  a  week,  he  sleeping  under  the  deck  awning 
with  our  six  native  "  boys,"  I  inhabiting  the  tiny,  un- 
comfortable, beetle-haunted  cabin  of  the  launch.  He 
had  told  me  also  that  he  had  good  reason  to  suppose 
Hugh  was  somewhere  in  the  Purari  Delta  country, 
since  he  and  Worboise  himself  had  gone  through  it 
on  a  sago-getting  expedition  a  good  many  years  ago, 


3o8  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  they  were  the  only  white  men  in  New  Guinea  who 
really  knew  the  place,  or  could  find  their  way  about  in 
it.  The  natives,  it  seemed,  had  treated  them  favor- 
ably on  the  whole,  and  were  not  likely  to  attack  us,  if 
we  took  good  care  of  what  we  said  and  did  —  espe- 
cially as  my  presence  would  be  interpreted  as  a  sign 
of  peaceful  intent. 

"  There's  never  no  mischief  about  when  they  'ave 
their  own  women  out,"  said  Mr.  Worboise,  the  day 
before  we  started,  "  and  they  take  it  to  be  the  same 
way  with  us,  I  reckon,  or  would  take  it  —  there's 
never  been  a  white  woman  seen  within  a  'undred 
miles  of  this  place.  I'll  get  you  through  all  right, 
Mrs.  Hugh;  what  I  don't  know  about  them  man- 
eaters  ain't  worth  knowing,  and  I  tell  you,  as  no  doubt 
I've  told  you  hoften  "  (he  had)  "that  they  ain't  'alf 
bad  fellers  when  you  get  to  know  them.  But  you'll 
'ave  to  be  guided  by  me  in  heverything,  once  we  get 
down  into  the  Delter,  and  don't  you  be  frightened  at 
nothin'  you  see;  most  times  there's  no  need  of  bein' 
frightened,  and  hall  times  there's  no  good." 

I  promised  courage  with  a  shrinking  heart,  for  in- 
deed, the  account  of  the  Delta  terrified  me,  and  the 
preparations  Mr.  Worboise  made  for  our  start  in  Port 
Moresby  alarmed  me  still  more.  The  steam-launch 
which  we  hired  was  an  old  one,  and  badly  in  need  of 
repair  here  and  there,  but  my  guide  chose  her  in  pref- 
erence to  an  oil  launch  of  superior  make  and  speed, 
partly  because  we  could  use  wood  fuel  in  case  of 
emergency,  and  partly  (to  my  dismay)'  because  she 
had  been  fitted  at  one  time  with  high  sheet-iron  bul- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  309 

warks,  designed  as  a  protection  against  arrows,  on 
some  such  trip  as  this. 

Then,  when  our  stores  were  on  board,  and  my  one 
tiny  box  was  placed  in  the  cabin,  he  embarked  six 
Papuans  to  act  as  crew  and  guard,  all  armed  with 
rifles  and  bandoliers  of  cartridges,  that  gave  the  expe- 
dition an  unpleasantly  war-like  appearance.  His  own 
rifle,  loaded,  was  kept  in  the  cabin;  he  warned  me  to 
be  careful  in  handling  it;  and  he  brought  down  a  re- 
volver on  the  day  of  our  start,  which  he  hung  beside 
my  mirror. 

"  That's  for  you,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  said.  "  I'll  teach 
you  to  use  it  on  the  way  down;  it's  an  'undred  to  one 
you'll  never  want  it,  but  still,  one  doesn't  take  no 
chances,  not  even  'undred  to  ones,  on  this  kind  of  a 
trip." 

Withal,  he  was  so  perfectly  cool  and  unexcited  about 
the  whole  business,  that  I,  remembering  I  was  now  in 
a  pioneer  country,  where  much  more  was  expected  of 
women  than  in  the  safe,  settled  lands  far  away  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world  —  remembering,  too,  that  I 
was  married  to  a  brave  man,  and  must  not  prove  my- 
self unworthy  of  him  —  did  the  best  I  could  to  con- 
ceal the  terrors  from  which  I  certainly  suffered.  It 
was  not  difficult :  Mr.  Worboise's  spirit,  old  as  he  was, 
was  that  of  the  true  Empire-maker  and  breaker-in  of 
new  lands  —  it  counted  cowardice  as  a  thing  impos- 
sible, either  in  himself  or  others,  given  sufficient  cause 
for  the  display  of  courage. 

But  that  afternoon,  when  we  lay  outside  the  mouths 
of  the  great  Purari  River,  waiting  for  the  flood  tide 


310  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

to  take  us  over  the  bar,  I  had  need  of  all  my  new 
spirit,  and  perhaps  a  little  more.  For  the  place 
weighed  strangely  on  my  mind. 

We  were  lying  in  the  center  of  a  huge  plain  of  livid 
yellow  water,  with  a  livid  yellow  sky,  hot  as  burning 
brass,  above  us.  In  front  of  us,  a  long  way  off, 
stretched  a  level-topped,  unbroken  rampart,  black 
against  the  sky,  and  dropping  sheer  into  the  sea  with- 
out a  trace  of  shore-line.  This  colossal  wall,  appar- 
ently a  hundred  feet  in  height  or  more,  wound  in  and 
out  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  following  every 
curve  of  the  island,  and  hiding  everything  that  lay 
behind.  I  cannot  describe  the  appearance  of  secrecy 
and  defiance  that  it  gave  to  this  unknown,  unvisited 
coast  whither  our  strange  errand  had  led  us. 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Worboise  ?  "  I  asked  nervously. 
"  That  great  wall  —  I  don't  understand  it  —  and 
where  is  the  river?" 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Mrs.  Hugh,  that's  nothin'  but  the 
mangroves,"  answered  Mr.  Worboise,  lifting  his  head 
from  the  engine-hole  (I  cannot  call  it  a  room)  where 
he  was  busy  tinkering  away  at  the  little  engine.  "  All 
this  coast  is  mangrove  and  swamp.  Trees,  you  under- 
stand. They  grows  as  close  as  'airs  in  an  'air-brush, 
and  the  towns,  they're  'id  among  the  trees  and  the 
swamps,  and  the  rivers,  so's  you'd  never  know  there 
wasn't  none  there,  if  you  didn't  'ave  the  luck  to  'it 
them." 

"  Is  that  inhabited  ?  "  I  asked  in  amazement,  looking 
at  the  lifeless,  stirless  wall  and  the  far-reaching  table- 
land of  closely  massed  tree  tops  behind. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  311 

"  In'abited  ?  Why,  it's  the  most  in'abited  place  in 
the  country;  wait  till  you  see." 

The  engine  was  going  now,  and  the  tide  had  risen 
almost  to  flood ;  we  were  steaming  cautiously  over  the 
shallow  waters  of  the  bar,  getting  nearer  to  the  mighty 
mangrove  wall.  As  we  approached,  an  opening  began 
to  show  itself  right  in  our  course  —  widening  and 
growing  with  every  revolution  of  the  screw  —  the 
opening  of  the  tremendous  stream  from  which  poured 
out  the  yellow  flood  that  colored  the  sea  for  miles  and 
miles,  and  turned  the  salt  waters  of  the  Gulf  to  fresh, 
out  of  sight  of  land. 

"  That's  one  of  the  Purari  mouths,"  said  Mr.  Wor- 
boise. 

A  Papuan  was  driving  the  engine  now,  and  my  guide 
was  at  the  wheel,  keeping  a  cautious  eye  ahead  for  the 
floating  tree-trunks,  immense  masses  of  timber  as  solid 
as  steel,  that  came  charging  out  into  the  bay  on  the 
current  of  the  river,  constantly  threatening  to  ram  the 
sides  of  our  fragile  little  vessel.  We  were  getting 
into  the  stream ;  the  mangrove  wall  was  parting  right 
and  left  of  us,  as  the  sea  parted  before  the  Israelites, 
and  almost  as  miraculously.  A  hundred  feet  on  each 
side  of  us  it  stood  up,  close-massed  trunks  set  in  black 
gleaming  water,  without  a  sign  of  land.  Beyond  the 
wall,  clumps  of  a  strange  water-palm  sprang  straight 
up  out  of  the  river,  like  bunches  of  ostrich  plumes 
twenty  and  thirty  feet  high.  These,  and  the  man- 
groves, and  the  skimming  logs,  and  the  white  cockatoos 
that  flew  screaming  out  of  the  trees  at  our  approach, 
were  all  mirrored  line  for  line  in  the  wide  glit- 


3i2  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

taring  stretch  of  water,  which  was  colored  citron- 
green. 

To  my  astonishment,  I  found  it  beautiful,  and  said 
so.  We  crept  steadily  up  the  river,  against  the  im- 
mense, invisible  current,  and  now  there  was  something 
like  land  to  be  seen  —  black,  swampy  stuff,  sloping  ab- 
ruptly down  to  the  stream,  with  the  gleam  of  water 
behind  and  through  it  in  a  million  places.  Wherever 
this  land  appeared,  the  display  of  foliage  was  so  mar- 
velous that  I  could  find  no  words  to  express  my  won- 
der. Rank  with  an  unwholesome  luxuriance,  green  with 
a  venomous  brilliance  of  color,  it  fairly  flung  itself  at 
the  water  —  a  tangle  of  leaves  sword-like,  fan-like, 
snake-like,  fern-like,  finger-like,  flag-like;  an  army  of 
trunks  scaled  like  alligators,  or  spined  like  porcupines, 
or  splashed  with  gouts  of  unaccountable  blood-like 
hues;  a  tangle  of  reptilian  creepers,  twisting  and  chok- 
ing and  coiling  round  every  branch  and  no  flowers, 
no  colors,  nothing  but  the  poisonous  green  of  the  for- 
est, and  the  liquid  green  of  the  river,  and  over  all,  the 
thunderous,  low-hanging,  threatening  sky. 

All  that  morning  we  steamed  up  the  endless  river 
reaches,  our  panting  little  engine  breaking  the  deadly 
silences  with  its  steady  throb,  our  screw  leaving  a 
sharply  marked  wake  across  the  unbroken  mirror  of 
the  stream.  I  could  not  imagine  how  my  companion 
found  his  way,  for  the  place  was  like  nothing  on  earth 
but  Hampton  Court  Maze  magnified  a  million  times, 
and  turned  to  colossal  rivers,  separated  by  walls  of 
primeval  forest.  Here  and  there  a  great  lagoon 
opened  out,  with  scores  of  rivers  and  streams  debouch- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  313 

ing  into  it  on  every  side,  all  apparently  alike,  and 
steaming  black  flats  of  mud,  where  more  than  once  we 
caught  a  glimpse  of  an  alligator  sliding  his  huge  body 
into  the  concealing  water,  without  a  sound  or  a  splash. 
Across  the  open  spaces  the  Ela  made  her  way  without 
hesitation,  my  guide  appearing  to  know  by  instinct  the 
right  opening  to  take,  where  all  looked  alike,  and  all 
were  equally  unsuggestive  of  leading  to  anywhere  at 
all.  And  still,  never  a  sound  save  the  crying  of  the 
cockatoos,  or  a  sign  of  life  in  all  the  forests,  or  on  all 
the  lonely  banks.  We  seemed  to  have  found  chaos 
again  —  the  earth  as  it  was  before  the  creation  of 
man,  or  before  the  land  was  separated  from  the  waters. 

In  the  afternoon  the  steamy  heat,  shut  in  by  dense 
walls  of  foliage,  grew  so  overpowering  that  I  lay 
down  in  the  shade  of  the  awning,  and  half  dozed  away. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  there,  but  I  was  roused 
very  suddenly,  and  sprang  to  my  feet  half  awake. 
What  I  saw  drove  every  vestige  of  sleep  from  my  eyes 
at  once. 

Out  of  a  mere  narrow  trench  in  the  greenery  of  the 
banks,  from  somewhere  in  the  interior  of  the  swamp, 
two  long  canoes  had  shot,  filled  with  naked  men  who 
were  howling  like  demons.  Each  of  them  wore  an  im- 
mense halo  of  colored  parrot  plumes  set  upright  about 
his  head,  and  all  the  faces  were  horribly  painted,  with 
staring  block  circles  about  the  eyes,  and  scarlet  streaks 
and  patches  on  the  features.  A  peculiarly  fierce  and 
beast-like  expression  was  produced  by  the  white  tusks 
they  wore  thrust  through  their  noses.  They  were 
Gne,  muscular  men,  and  paddled  far  faster  than  the 


3H     WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

launch  could  go,  in  their  narrow  dug-out  canoes  which 
were  painted  to  imitate  a  huge  water-snake.  They  all 
carried  bows  and  arrows,  and  looked  the  wildest  and 
wickedest  creatures  that  any  imagination  could  pic- 
ture outside  of  hell. 

"  Mr.  Worboise ! "  I  said,  scarce  able  to  speak,  and 
clutching  tightly  to  the  rail. 

But  he  had  seen  them  as  soon  as  myself. 

"  They're  all  right,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  said,  cheer- 
fully. "  That's  not  their  war-bows  and  spears  they've 
got,  only  their  'untin'  houtfit." 

"  .Why  are  they  howling  so  ? "  I  gasped,  as  the 
canoes  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Ela,  making  a 
noise  like  a  dog-show  in  full  swing. 

"  Why,  they're  'owlin'  at  you ;  they've  never  seen 
a  white  woman  before,  and  they're  mazed,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  Come  a  little  nearer  and  show  yourself, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

I  minded  extremely,  but  I  approached  the  side  on 
which  the  canoes  were  following,  and  looked  over  the 
rail.  The  effect  was  amazing.  One  canoe- full  of 
warriors,  whose  feathers  and  equipments  were  slightly 
different  from  those  of  the  others,  stopped  yelling  for 
a  moment,  fixed  a  concentrated  and  unanimous  glare 
upon  my  face,  and  then,  raising  a  yelp  that  could  have 
been  heard  a  mile  away,  turned  tail  and  darted  up  a 
small  side  stream  into  the  recesses  of  the  swamp,  pad- 
dling for  their  lives.  For  a  long  time  after,  dismal 
wails  from  the  swamp  mingled  with  shrieks  of  fiendish 
laughter,  delivered  by  the  men  of  the  remaining  canoe. 
Old  Mr.  Worboise  joined  heartily  in  the  laughter. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  315 

"  Just  wot  I  thought,"  he  said,  wiping  his  eyes. 
"  Them's  a  reel  wild  bushman  lot,  and  the  sight  of 
you  'as  frightened  them  out  of  their  lives.  This  lot's 
Maipuans ;  we're  gettin'  in  to  the  town." 

"What  town?" 

"  Why,  Maipua ;  it's  the  best  place  to  begin  inquirin' 
about.  Last  year,  the  Maipuans  would  have  eat  you 
and  me  as  sure  as  I'd  heat  a  hoyster ;  but  the  new  Gov- 
ernment, it's  'ad  a  couple  of  patrols  down  here  lately, 
and  the  Maipuans,  which  is  as  cute  as  pet  foxes,  is 
seein'  what  way  the  cat  jumps  now,  and  they'd  not 
touch  us,  without  we  were  to  hannoy  them.  There, 
didn't  I  tell  you?  —  there's  Maipua.  Now  if  we  don't 
'ear  some  sort  of  news  here,  it'll  be  all  out  of  my 
reckonin'.  Reel  gossips  these  Maipuans  is ;  there  ain't 
a  halligator  speared  in  the  Delter,  or  a  skull  'ung  up 
in  a  temple,  but  they  knows  all  about  it." 

I  hardly  heard  him,  for  my  eyes  were  struck  at  the 
moment  by  the  strangest  sight,  indeed,  they  are  ever 
likely  to  view  before  the  grave  darkens  down  upon 
them  forever. 

Maipua  lay  before  us.  For  nearly  a  mile,  the  great 
still  river,  with  its  banks  of  oozy  mud,  and  its  back- 
ground of  flaming  green,  was  hemmed  in  by  the  build- 
ings of  the  chief  town  of  the  Purari  Delta  —  such 
buildings  as  no  language  could  describe,  no  pen  do 
justice  to.  The  place  was  like  a  nightmare  of  the 
wildest  and  most  terrifying  kind  —  that,  and  nothing 
else. 

Under  the  black,  lowering  sky  that  so  constantly 
hangs  above  the  Delta  country,  the  houses  sprang  from 


316  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

the  slimy  ooze  to  an  enormous  height  —  fifty,  seventy, 
a  hundred  feet,  each  one  flinging  up  a  huge  pointed 
horn-like  gable  right  into  the  thunderous  purple  clouds. 
Beneath  these  gables  the  open  fronts  of  the  houses 
gaped  like  jaws  of  some  lurking  beast  of  prey,  sloping 
backwards  and  inwards  with  an  angle  exactly  like  that 
of  a  throat.  Behind,  the  long  trailing  body  of  the 
house  slipped  back  to  hide  itself  among  the  swamps 
and  creeks  of  the  banks.  It  was  just  as  if  a  company 
of  hideous  monsters,  open-mouthed  for  prey,  had 
camped  themselves  close  along  the  shores  of  the  river 
ready  to  snap  up  anything  that  passed.  The  resem- 
blance was  too  close  to  be  accidental;  I  am  sure  it  is 
part  of  the  fierce  humor  of  these  people  to  build  their 
houses  in  this  amazing  form. 

In  front  of  almost  every  house  was  a  platform, 
overhanging  the  river  bank,  and  on  each  of  these  plat- 
forms stood  and  squatted  crowds  of  brown  naked  men, 
gayly  painted  and  feathered.  A  few  women,  clad  only 
in  bark  aprons,  were  to  be  seen  passing  to  and  fro 
through  the  morass  on  which  all  the  houses  were  built, 
walking  with  wonderful  ease  and  lightness  over  the 
fragile  stick  bridges  that  connected  the  different  parts 
of  the  town.  I  remembered  what  Mr.  Worboise  had 
said  about  the  presence  of  the  women  denoting  safety, 
and  felt  much  relieved  to  see  these  ugly,  unwoman- 
like  creatures,  for,  in  spite  of  my  guide's  assurances, 
I  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  the  companies  of  feath- 
ered and  painted  warriors  drawn  up  on  the  platforms 
of  the  houses  were  not  to  be  feared. 

We  anchored  for  the  night  out  in  the  middle  of  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  317 

stream,  and  Mr.  Worboise  and  the  Port  Moresby  na- 
tives took  turns  keeping  watch  till  dawn.  I  slept  ill 
in  spite  of  fatigue ;  every  splash  in  the  river  suggested 
horrors  to  me,  and  I  was  unspeakably  relieved  to  see 
the  dawn  —  a  red  and  angry  one  —  creep  through  the 
windows  of  the  cabin,  and  spill  like  a  stream  of  blood 
over  my  white  dressing  gown,  while  the  parrots  waked 
in  the  dense  marshy  forests  outside,  and  came  scream- 
ing and  flying  up  out  of  the  lurid  east. 

After  breakfast  we  went  ashore  together,  leaving 
the  boys  in  charge  of  the  launch.  Fortunately,  the 
natives  had  shown  themselves  very  shy  of  approaching 
it,  being  evidently  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  some  kind 
of  a  devil,  spitting  fire  and  smoke.  Even  the  brave 
paddlers  who  had  escorted  us  into  Maipua  the  evening 
before,  had  been  careful  to  keep  at  least  fifty  or  sixty 
yards  away. 

We  landed  on  a  bank  of  black  slime,  bridged  by 
rough  logs,  and  took  our  way  through  the  swamp  to 
the  largest  of  the  houses.  My  wonder  grew  with 
every  step.  It  was  in  such  a  land  as  this,  then,  that 
Hugh  had  hidden  himself  away  —  in  surroundings 
such  as  these  —  and  he  had  not  gone  mad,  or  died  of 
horror.  .  .  .  Should  I  be  able  to  say  as  much,  if 
our  search  proved  to  be  a  long  one  ?  I  doubted  it. 

The  first  house  that  we  entered  stood  on  piles  about 
ten  feet  high,  and  was  reached  by  a  steep  ladder  of 
tree-branches.  The  formidable  crew  collected  on  the 
platform  made  no  objection  to  letting  us  pass.  Mr. 
Worboise  spoke  to  them  in  their  tongue ;  they  seemed 
to  know  him,  and  had  evidently  no  ill  intent. 


3i8  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

We  entered  under  the  tremendous  arch  of  the  hun- 
dred foot  gable,  accompanied  by  a  tall  man  who  seemed 
to  be  something  of  a  chief,  and  passed  out  of  the 
rays  of  the  burning  sun  into  a  sudden  dim  coolness 
that  was  very  refreshing.  I  looked  about  me  with 
wonder  and  fear.  The  house  seemed  to  run  back  for 
a  very  long  distance,  three  or  four  hundred  feet,  at 
least,  rapidly  sloping  downwards.  Long  curtains  of 
brown  fiber  hid  the  farther  end.  The  nearer  part 
was  decorated  with  every  kind  of  horror  that  an  im- 
agination crazed  with  drink  or  fear  could  have  sug- 
gested—  only  these  things  were  real.  Human  skulls 
hung  in  strings  from  the  supporting  pillars  of  the 
house.  Grinning  jaws  of  alligators  met  the  eye  in 
every  dusky  corner.  Black  shields  carved  with  skele- 
ton-white figures  of  monstrous  things  with  faces  half 
human,  half  crab  or  shark  or  pig,  flanked  the  center 
pathway  in  serried  rows.  Daggers  made  of  human 
thigh-bones  hung  upon  the  walls,  war-bows,  arrows, 
and  ebony-wood  spears  hideously-barbed,  were  stacked 
in  the  corners.  The  skull  of  a  man,  carved  into  fret- 
work patterns,  and  fitted  with  an  artificial  snout  of 
bone  that  made  it  look  half  pig,  half  devil,  was  sus- 
pended by  a  string  in  our  pathway.  A  large  cooking- 
bowl  of  dark  fire-clay,  heavily  stained  with  grease, 
rolled  right  over  my  foot  as  I  passed  it,  and  I  almost 
screamed.  .  .  . 

We  stopped  before  the  great  drop-curtain  that  cut 
off  the  inner  part  of  the  house ;  beyond  that,  Mr.  Wor- 
boise  told  me,  no  white  man  would  be  permitted  to  ad- 
vance. What  might  lie  in  the  Unholy  of  Unholies  at 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  319 

the  end,  could  only  be  guessed.     Instant  death  would 
probably  be  the  penalty  of  trying  to  find  out. 

Here,  then,  we  held  our  talk.  My  guide  presented 
the  chief  with  several  sticks  of  tobacco,  a  tomahawk, 
and  a  yard  or  two  of  red  calico,  gifts  that  seemed  to 
please  him  greatly.  Some  of  them  were  passed 
through  my  hands,  for  Mr.  Worboise  said  that  the 
natives  regarded  me  with  fear  and  horror,  as  an  un- 
natural thing  that  they  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of, 
and  it  was  as  well  to  dissipate  the  impression,  if  we 
were  to  win  their  good  will. 

.  .  .  Shall  I  confess  that  I  actually  felt  a  throb 
of  mortified  vanity  at  this?  It  was  indeed  a  new  ex- 
perience for  me  to  find  every  eye  turned  away  from 
me,  or  regarding  me,  at  best,  with  disgusted  curiosity. 
These  malodorous  savages,  with  their  truculent  faces 
and  gory,  betel-stained  jaws,  drew  back  as  from  some 
unknown  horror  when  I  passed  near  them.  .  . 
If  they  had  only  known  how  very  much  more  afraid 
I  was  of  them,  than  they  could  possibly  be  of  me! 

Mr.  Worboise  talked  and  talked  on,  and  the  men 
of  Maipua  answered,  slowly  and  sullenly  for  the  most 
part.  I  could  not  understand  a  word,  but  my  instinct 
told  me  that  things  were  not  going  as  well  as  might 
be  wished.  The  questions  grew  longer,  the  answers 
sullener  and  shorter.  Outside,  beyond  the  cool  shadow 
of  the  great  "  ravi "  (as  the  houses  were  named)  the 
sun  beat  down  upon  the  fathomless  black  slime  and 
the  poisonous  green  creepers  and  trailers,  raising  hor- 
rible exhalations  into  the  dead,  damp,  heat-soaked  air. 
A  long  way  off,  a  thin  metallic  sound  of  voices  chant- 


320  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

ing  made  itself  heard,  coming  slowly  nearer  and 
nearer. 

Mr.  Worboise  stopped  at  last,  and  rubbed  his  hand 
across  his  dripping  forehead. 

"  No  good,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  said.  "  Let's  be  get- 
tin'  on." 

They  did  not  stand  aside  to  let  us  pass,  and  we  had 
to  push  a  way  to  the  platform  outside,  through  their 
evil-smelling  painted  bodies.  I  did  not  much  like  this, 
nor,  I  saw,  did  my  companion.  The  truth  was,  I  was 
sick  with  terror,  and  had  been  so  all  the  morning. 
This  last  touch  was  almost  too  much,  and  I  started  to 
run  across  the  platform  to  the  dingy.  But  Mr.  Wor- 
boise gripped  my  arm. 

"  Don't  do  that;  there's  no  trouble,  if  you  don't  go 
for  to  make  it,"  he  said. 

The  chanting  sound  was  coming  nearer,  round  the 
bend  of  the  river.  It  was  close  at  hand  now.  We 
got  into  the  dingy  quickly,  but  without  haste,  and 
pushed  off,  both,  I  think,  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
it  became  evident  that  no  objection  to  our  departure 
would  be  made.  And  at  that  moment,  the  source  of 
the  music  became  visible. 

Down  the  river  came  a  huge  raft,  so  freighted  with 
waving  leaves  and  branches  that  it  looked  like  a  piece 
of  forest  afloat.  It  had  a  crowd  of  wild-eyed  naked 
men  aboard,  decked  out  in  feathers  and  grasses,  so  that 
they  fluttered  all  over  with  every  movement.  In  the 
center  of  the  raft  was  a  kind  of  pyre,  upon  which  lay 
something  wrapped  up  in  leaves  —  something  long  and 
shapeless.  The  warriors,  urging  the  raft  along,  sang 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  321 

a  wild,  fierce,  brassy  chant  as  they  swung  to  their  pad- 
dles, and  paused  at  rhythmic  intervals  to  shake  a  spear 
or  a  bunch  of  bristling  arrows  at  the  formless  thing 
they  ferried. 

"In  God's  name,  what  is  it?"  I  asked,  my  hand 
clenched  tight  on  my  companion's  sleeve. 

No  answer  came  for  a  minute.  Then  I  heard  Mr. 
Worboise  heave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  It's  only  a  pig  —  this  time,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be 
afraid  to  look.  It  ain't  always  .  .  ." 

For  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  him,  he  bit  a 
cannibal  reference  off  before  it  had  reached  his  lips. 

The  raft  passed  quite  near  us  as  we  rowed  out 
to  the  launch  again,  but  not  a  soul  on  board  took  the 
slightest  notice  of  us.  They  seemed  rapt  in  a  kind  of 
hideous  ecstasy,  absorbed  in  the  booming  bellow  of 
their  chant.  For  a  long  time  after  the  raft  passed  us, 
and  disappeared  round  the  next  bend  of  the  stream, 
we  could  hear  the  horrid  sound,  growing  gradually 
faint  in  the  distance. 

Mr.  Worboise  got  up  steam  at  once,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  we  were  panting  down  the  river  again,  with 
the  great  devil-horns  of  the  Maipuan  houses  pricking 
into  the  brassy  sky  behind  us,  and  the  wide  green 
reaches  of  the  Purari  opening  out  before. 

I  came  to  him  where  he  was  standing  at  the  wheel. 

'  You  got  no  good  news,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  he  answered  heavily.  "  Truth  is,  Mrs. 
Hugh,  the  Delter  seems  hup  a  bit.  They  was  rather 
sorry  in  the  ravi,  and  they  wouldn't  tork  about  Hugh, 
except  to  say  they  'adn't  'card  nothing  about  him, 


322       •     WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

which  is  a  lie  on  the  face  of  it.  Never  you  mind,  we'll 
'ear  somethin'  to-morrow,  if  I  can  find  the  place  I 
want." 

He  turned  the  wheel  in  his  hands,  and  swept  round 
the  bend.  A  waft  of  cool  air  from  the  wider  reaches 
blew  across  the  deck,  and  the  natives  who  were  squat- 
ted near  us,  ostentatiously  cleaning  their  rifles,  raised 
their  heads  and  snuffed  the  freshness  with  delight. 

It  was  good  to  be  out  in  the  free,  safe  river  again ; 
but  my  mind  felt  heavy. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

T  \  7HEN  I  look  back  upon  that  time  of  adventure 
^'  and  peril  in  the  Delta,  I  almost  wonder  if,  in 
truth,  it  ever  happened  —  if  the  whole  tale  is  more 
than  the  recollection  of  a  dream,  dreamed  in  the  thun- 
derous midnight  hours  of  the  hot  season,  when  the  tide 
of  life  runs  low,  and  the  mind  is  attuned  to  strange 
and  terrible  fancies.  Even  while  we  were  traveling 
through  it,  the  whole  country  seemed  to  me  incredible 
and  unreal.  Nothing  was  actual  but  the  little  handful 
of  known  and  familiar  things  contained  within  the 
oval  of  the  Eltfs  bulwarks, —  the  ill-smelling,  beetle- 
haunted  cabin,  our  six  Papuan  boys,  who  sat  singing 
and  drum-beating  on  the  deck  all  day  long,  to  pass  the 
time,  the  puffing  funnel  and  the  chattering  engine  — 
these  were  the  only  rocks  to  which  my  mind  could  cling 
in  a  shifting  sea  of  things  unheard-of,  incomprehensi- 
ble, terrifying.  And  yet,  in  a  way,  I  became  used  to 
he  life. 

When  we  had  been  three  days  tracking  and  thread- 
ing the  mazes  of  this  most  wonderful  place,  I  felt  as 
if  the  Stephanie  of  London  days,  who  used  to  be  seen 
in  and  out  of  cabs,  and  met  at  suburban  railway  sta- 
tions, never  had  existed,  and  as  if  this  new  Stephanie 
who  periled  her  life  so  readily,  went  ashore  with  a 
loaded  revolver  stuck  in  the  belt  of  her  dress,  and 

323 


324  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

looked  without  emotion  at  garlands  of  human  skulls 
and  necklaces  of  human  teeth,  was  the  real  woman 
after  all.  Something  of  what  Carlyle  would  call 
"  husks  and  wrappages  "  had  been  stripped  away  in 
those  few  days;  what  was  left  was  the  real  me,  and 
I  knew  that,  being  thus  found,  it  would  never  be  lost 
again. 

We  had  trouble  finding  Doravi,  the  town  to  which 
Mr.  Worboise  wanted  to  go,  after  leaving  Maipua.  It 
was  in  the  center  of  the  sago  country,  and  for  this 
reason  he  thought  we  were  likely  to  find  Hugh  there, 
or  at  least  to  hear  of  him,  since  sago-getting  was  the 
only  source  of  income  in  the  Purari.  We  knew  now 
for  certain  that  he  was  in  the  Delta:  the  determined 
silence  of  the  natives  had  told  us  so  much. 

I  was  puzzled  to  know  why  Mr.  Worboise  had  not 
tried  to  obtain  information  from  the  men  on  the  raft; 
but  he  told  me  that  was  impossible. 

"  Not  when  you  know  as  much  of  these  people  as  I 
do,  you  wouldn't  hinterrupt  them  in  the  middle  of  a 
religious  ceremony,"  he  said,  "  which  that  was  one  we 
seen,  or  part  of  one  —  without  you  was  pretty  tired  of 
livin'.  And  hanyway,  judgin'  by  the  way  they  Mai- 
puans  be'aved  in  that  there  ravi,  we'd  'ave  'card 
nothin'.  Seems  as  if  the  word  'as  gone  out  in  the 
Delter  not  to  talk  to  houtsiders  about  hanything." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  asked,  with  beating 
heart. 

"  Might  mean  anythin',  or  nothin',  Now  look  there, 
Mrs.  Hugh,  there's  somethin'  reel  pretty  for  you," 
evaded  my  guide,  pointing  to  the  bank,  and  though  I 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  325 

feared  he  was  concealing  something  from  me,  I  al- 
lowed my  attention  to  be  distracted  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

"  That's  the  D'Alberti  creeper,"  he  said.  "  See  it 
comin'  down  like  a  waterfall  that's  bin  turned  to  big 
red  flowers,  right  from  the  top  of  the  trees  to  the 
water;  'undred  feet  and  over,  I'd  guess  it.  There 
ain't  many  flowers  'ere,  but  what  there  is  is  worth 
lookin'  at." 

All  morning  and  all  afternoon  the  Ela  ran  on  just  as 
she  had  run  the  day  before,  panting  noisily  through  the 
breathless  silences  of  the  tangled  river-maze,  where 
never  another  sound  broke  the  deathly  stillness,  save  the 
sudden  screaming  of  a  frightened  bird,  or  far  in  the 
distance,  down  some  unknown  water-lane,  the  boom- 
ing bellow  of  an  alligator.  The  beauty  of  the  foliage 
on  the  banks,  and  the  mirror-like  reflections  in  the  cit- 
ron-green water;  the  exquisite  passing  glimpses  of  in- 
ner lake  sanctuaries,  reached  by  arcades  of  palm  and 
orchid,  and  strewn  with  feathery  green  islets  —  the 
magnificent  stretch  and  sweep  of  the  great  main  cur- 
rents, Amazons,  Mississippis,  Danubes,  Zambesis,  all 
flowing  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  one  another, 
and  joined  by  countless  lesser  channels  —  I  could  never 
hope  to  describe.  Dimly  and  wonderingly,  I  began  to 
understand  how  this  amazing  place  must  have  called  to 
the  wild  instincts  of  the  man  with  whose  strange  fate 
my  fragile,  frivolous  life  had  been  so  incongruously 
linked.  .  .  .  Surely,  in  a  country  that  is  the  very 
home  of  the  impossible,  nothing  more  astonishing  than 
the  tale  of  our  love  had  ever  come  about ! 


326  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

Sago  palms  grew  thickly  on  the  banks  —  tall,  hand- 
some trees  with  coronets  of  green  fronds,  and  scaly 
trunks  marked  like  the  skin  of  a  snake.  I  asked  Mr. 
Worboise  about  the  tree,  and  he  told  me  of  its  wonder- 
ful stores  of  nourishment  —  of  the  white  mass  of  pith 
that  was  concealed  by  the  shell-like  trunk,  food  for  a 
man  for  many  months,  once  it  was  taken  out,  beaten, 
washed  and  dried,  so  as  to  extract  the  nourishing 
starch  and  leave  the  fiber  behind, —  of  the  fine-flavored 
jellies  that  could  be  made  from  it,  perfect  in  taste  and 
in  strengthening  properties,  when  eaten  with  cocoanut 
cream;  of  the  total  unlikeness  of  the  real  article  to  the 
insipid  stuff  sold  in  civilized  shops. 

"  What  the  trade  does  with  the  sago  they  buys  I 
wouldn't  hundertake  to  say,"  he  observed.  "  Likely 
mixes  a  hounce  of  it  to  a  ton  of  pertater  starch,  and 
passes  it  off  as  reel.  But  us  who  lives  in  sago  coun- 
tries, we  knows  what  good  food  it  is.  You'd  never 
starve  in  the  Delter,  not  so  long  as  you'd  a  tommy'awk 
and  your  two  'ands.  I've  always  known  there  was 
money  in  it,  and  so  has  others,  but  where  the  sago  is, 
there's  the  cannibal  lot  too,  and  they're  not  heasy  to 
trade  with,  let  alone  that  you  never  know  they  won't 
turn  on  you  and  make  a  stoo  of  you,  if  they  takes  a 
prejudice  again  you. 

"  Don't  you  forget,  dealin'  with  cannibals,"  he  went 
on,  "  that  they're  as  nervish  as  a  school-gurl  of  six- 
teen, and  as  scary  as  a  young  'orse  that  isn't  broke  — 
more  so;  you'd  find  it  'ard  to  think  of  anything,  ani- 
mal or  'uman,  that  is  as  nervish  and  scary.  You  seen 
that  before ;  they  was  all  on  the  jump  all  the  time  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  327 

bother  day.  You  see,  when  a  feller  lives  constant  in 
fear  of  bein'  clubbed  and  put  in  the  cookin'  pot,  it  de- 
stroys 'is  carmness,  like,  and  'e  gets  into  a  state  that 
would  mean  Fellers's  Surrup,  and  no  tobacco  nor 
drinks,  and  go  to  bed  at  height,  if  'e  was  a  white  man 
and  consulted  a  doctor  about  it.  When  a  cannibal 
kills  someone,  'e  does  it  for  one  of  two  reasons  — 
either  because  'e's  frit  of  bein'  killed  'imself,  or  be- 
cause 'e's  got  into  such  a  peculiar  nervish  state  that 
'e  don't  know  what  he's  doin'  any'ow,  and  goes  for 
the  first  thing  he  sees.  There's  other  reasons  now 
and  then,  but  they  'appen  so  seldom  you  may  leave 
them  out.  .  .  ." 

The  speech  was  never  finished.  From  out  a  nar- 
row waterway,  almost  invisible  in  the  dense  tangle  of 
greenery,  flashed  the  nose  of  a  canoe  —  out,  and  back 
again,  almost  before  it  had  been  seen.  There  was 
just  the  least  ripple  of  the  glass-green  water,  just  the 
slightest  quiver  of  the  overhanging  fronds  of  palm, 
and  then  —  not  a  sign,  not  a  sound.  The  river  was 
void  of  life  once  more. 

"  That's  as  good  as  a  map  of  the  districk  and  tour- 
ists' guide  to  the  towns,"  said  Mr.  Worboise  with  some 
satisfaction.  "  Now  I'm  beginnin'  to  guess  where  we 
are.  'Tisn't  that  I  don't  know  the  channels,  or  some 
of  them,  but  they  doesn't  stay  the  same;  lots  of  them 
has  altered  since  Hugh  and  I  was  here  together,  and 
Doravi  seems  as  if  it's  been  and  lost  itself.  But  it 
can't  be  far  off  now;  them  fellers  in  the  canoe  who 
scooted  so  quick  was  comm'  out  by  one  of  the  back 
doors.  The  'ole  Delter's  full  of  towns  you  can't  see 


328  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  wouldn't  suspicion;  it's  not  'alf  as  dead  as  it  looks. 
You  see,  we'll  make  Doravi  before  sundown." 

We  did.  It  was  still  quite  light  when  the  steam- 
launch  swept  round  a  corner  masked  by  an  immense 
clump  of  nipa  or  water-palms,  and  came  into  view  of 
a  town  that,  in  its  own  way,  was  still  more  wonderful 
than  Maipua. 

Nothing  less  than  a  New  Guinea  Venice  lay  before 
us.  The  river  on  which  the  town  was  built  was  very 
wide,  and  dark  green  with  depth.  There  was  no  real 
land  at  all;  only  an  occasional  gleam  of  black,  semi- 
liquid  mud  among  the  lianas  and  water-palms  at  the 
edges  of  forest,  showed  where  the  trees  took  root. 
The  houses  were  of  the  same  extraordinary,  alligator- 
mouth  shape  as  those  of  Maipua,  but  smaller;  they 
stood  on  high  piles  right  in  the  clear  green  water,  and 
the  streets  and  alleys  were  all  water-paved.  Curious 
verandas  clung  to  the  sides  of  these  quaint  brown 
houses,  and  their  horn-shaped  gables  were  lost  in  the 
thick  of  the  over-hanging  boughs  above.  From  place 
to  place,  over  principal  side  streams,  light  bridges  of 
woven  vines  and  creepers  were  thrown.  It  was  the 
greenest,  wateriest,  leafiest,  stillest  place  we  had  yet 
seen.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  ghostly  quiet.  The  plat- 
forms of  the  ravis  were  filled  with  warriors,  painted, 
feathered  and  armed  to  the  teeth;  but  they  squatted 
there  like  lifeless  images,  each  in  his  own  place,  and 
moved  nothing  but  their  beady  eyes.  Children  in 
canoes  paddled  soundlessly  in  and  out  of  the  dusk  side 
streams  over  which  the  liana  bridges  swayed  and 
shook;  a  gleaming  streak  upon  the  black  water  of  a 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  329 

scarcely  seen  lagoon  showed  where  an  alligator  swam, 
all  hidden  but  the  cruel  eyes ;  from  the  branches  of  one 
of  the  heaviest  and  darkest  trees  a  pendulous  snake 
head,  joined  to  ten  feet  of  diamond-patterned  body, 
swung  to  and  fro  above  the  stream.  .  .  .  Beauti- 
ful, silent,  evil,  the  creature  seemed  the  very  spirit  of 
the  place. 

We  came  to  a  halt,  keeping  well  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  river,  and  Mr.  Worboise  began  to  look  about 
him. 

"  It's  Doravi  right  enough,"  he  said,  with  a  hand 
on  the  steering-wheel,  "  but  I  must  say  the  Doravi  fel- 
lers don't  look  much  like  what  I  seen  them  last.  Nerv- 
ish  they  was  to  what  you  couldn't  describe  it,  worse 
than  them  Maipuans  —  skippin'  and  'owlin'  and  run- 
nin'  away  in  canoes,  when  they  see  Hugh  and  me ;  now 
to-day  they  looks  as  if  they  was  all  drunk  on  betel-nut, 
or  all  gone  dotty,  or  somethink ;  I  can't  himagine  — ' 

At  that  moment  his  eyes  fell  on  an  object  promi- 
nently displayed  on  one  of  the  platforms  overhanging 
the  water,  and  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  him  change 
color. 

I  looked  at  the  thing,  and  did  not  like  it,  though  it 
was  simply  a  wickerwork  figure,  of  a  kind  I  had  not 
seen  in  any  of  the  houses  yet  —  a  huge,  dragon-like 
creature,  with  red  eyes,  a  trailing  tail,  and  short, 
stumpy  legs.  It  had  an  enormous  mouth,  gaping  wide 
open,  and  there  seemed  to  be  something  inside  —  what, 
I  could  not  see. 

I  turned  to  Mr.  Worboise,  with  a  new  kind  of  fear 
creeping  over  me.  (I  had  known  little  save  fear  since 


330  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

we  entered  this  awful  country  of  the  Purari,  but  never 
till  now  had  I  felt  such  a  crawling  of  the  roots  of  the 
hair,  such  a  grip  of  the  heart,  as  seized  me  when  I 
looked  at  that  grisly  thing  on  the  platform.) 

"  Mr.  Worboise,"  I  whispered,  for  I  was  afraid  to 
speak  aloud  — "  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  turned  on  me  a  face  that  had  suddenly  grown 
pale. 

"  God  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Hugh,"  he  whispered  in 
reply,  "  but  who  could  'a  thought  of  this  ?  Doravi's 
makin'  the  '  sempsi.' ' 

"What?" 

"  The  *  sempsi.'  No  one  rightly  knows  what  it  is, 
but  it's  one  of  their  devil  ceremonies  that  takes  place 
only  once  in  seven  years,  and  if  they  was  as  peaceable 
as  lambs  at  hother  times,  they'd  be  wolves  then,  for 
they  don't  allow  no  white  folks  to  see  any  of  it  and 
live.  .  .  .  My  eyes  isn't  quite  what  they  was,  Mrs. 
Hugh;  will  you  look  about  and  tell  me  if  you  sees  any 
women  or  girl  children  in  them  canoes  ?  " 

I  saw  none,  and  told  him  so,  with  the  tide  of  cold 
fear  creeping  ever  higher  and  higher  about  my  heart. 
All  the  figures  on  the  platforms  were  men ;  all  the  chil- 
dren gliding  about  in  the  canoes  were  boys  —  boys  with 
dark,  devilish  little  faces,  and  not  a  trace  of  childish- 
ness about  them,  full  as  cruel  as  their  seniors.  Fas- 
cinated with  horror,  but  as  yet  unable  to  realize  the 
danger,  I  glanced  once  more  at  the  sinister  thing  on 
the  platform  nearest  to  us.  ...  What  did  it  con- 
ceal in  those  gaping  jaws? 

The  answer  was  not  long  in  coming. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  331 

Something  was  dripping  into  the  river  from  under 
the  wickerwork  monster's  stumpy  limbs.  Something 
was  trickling  down  its  hideous  belly,  staining  the  plat- 
form red.  .  .  . 

I  knew. 

Mr.  Worboise  had  seen  it  too.  His  large  flat  face 
showed  no  fear,  but  the  livid  color  increased  as  he 
made  a  quick  gesture  with  his  hand  to  the  boy  who 
acted  as  engineer.  Then  he  gripped  the  steering-wheel 
closely,  and  threw  a  rapid  glance  ahead. 

One  minute  earlier  —  half-a-minute  —  and  the 
course  of  all  our  lives  had  been  changed.  But  the 
delay  had  been  too  long. 

The  engine  throbbed,  the  propeller  turned  —  the  Ela 
worked  slowly  round  in  her  tracks  and  headed  down 
the  stream.  Fascinated  still  with  terror,  I  gazed  at 
those  hideous  ranks  on  the  platforms.  Were  they 
going  to  let  us  go  without  a  word  —  us,  who  had  seen 
what  no  white  man,  and  no  woman,  white  or  brown, 
might  look  upon  and  live? 

They  did  not  move.  The  whites  of  their  eyes, 
clearly  visible  within  the  scarlet-painted  circles  about 
the  sockets,  showed  moveless  and  unwinking  in  the 
shadow  of  the  yawning  gables  behind.  They  were  all 
looking  —  where  ?  —  at  what  ? 

Again  the  question  was  answered.  The  Ela  had 
scarce  made  twenty  yards  on  the  way  towards  safety 
and  the  open  stream,  when,  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
stage  transformation,  the  whole  channel  in  front  of  us 
filled  up  with  a  crowd  of  war-canoes,  issuing  with  in- 
credible swiftness  from  numberless  unseen  waterways, 


332  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  a  yell  that  struck  through  me  like  a  knife  re- 
sounded in  the  hollow  arcade  of  overhanging  trees. 
Nor  did  it  cease,  once  begun.  A  continuous  torrent  of 
wild,  dog-like  yelps  poured  forth  without  end  from 
every  throat,  while  a  thousand  paddles,  beating  the 
water  into  foamy  spray,  drove  the  army  of  canoes 
down  the  channel  straight  at  the  launch.  The  speed 
of  the  paddlers  made  every  canoe  leap  and  quiver; 
the  naked,  painted  bodies  rose  and  fell  like  the  jumpers 
inside  a  piano.  All  the  feathers  and  streamers  that 
they  wore  —  all  the  arrows  and  spears  they  carried 
—  shook  and  flew  and  trembled  with  the  fury  of  their 
flight.  And  all  the  time  they  yelped  and  yelled,  like 
hell  itself  let  loose. 

I  was  so  giddy  with  terror  that  I  have  no  very  clear 
recollection  of  the  minutes  that  followed.  I  know 
that  Mr.  Worboise  thrust  me  into  the  cabin,  crying, 
"  Lie  down  on  the  floor,"  and  that  almost  instantly 
the  sound  of  rifle  shots  rang  out  above  the  awful 
tumult  of  the  savage  horde.  The  yelling  checked 
somewhat,  but  began  again  almost  at  once,  and  I 
heard  a  pattering  volley  of  arrows  strike  on  the  iron 
bulwarks  and  all  over  the  deck.  A  cry  from  one  of 
our  own  men  told  me  they  had  not  missed  their  mark. 
Then  the  rifles  rang  out  again,  mingled  with  shrieks 
from  our  boys,  and  calls  from  Mr.  Worboise  — 
"  Stand  to  them,  stand  to  them  —  shoot  him,  Kabua ! 
Mirani,  fire!"  Then  a  thundering  of  feet  all  over 
the  deck,  and  a  chorus  of  yells  compared  with  which 
the  former  cries  had  been  nothing  —  a  frantic  stamp- 
ing and  scuffling  —  more  rifle-shots  —  Mr.  Worboise's 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  333 

voice  again  — "  Keep  her  off,  keep  her  off,  Mirani ! 
Damn  you,  we're  aground !  " —  a  shock  that  vibrated 
through  the  whole  launch,  and  the  sickening  quiver 
of  the  propeller  choked  by  mud  —  the  continuing 
-good  God,  would  they  never  end?  was  everyone 
killed?  —  and  at  the  last,  the  crowning  horror  of  all 
—  a  dozen  naked  painted  bodies  struggling  to  enter 
the  cabin  all  together;  a  forest  of  hideous  arms  seizing 
me  at  all  at  once,  fruitless  struggling  on  my  part  over- 
borne, useless  screams  drowned  by  savage  howls  — 
the  sunlight  of  the  open  deck  burning  on  my  face, 
the  sudden  shock  of  a  fall  on  the  planks,  as  my  hands 
were  seized  and  my  feet  snatched  from  under  me,  and 
rudely  tied  together,  and  the  knowledge  that  the  fight 
was  lost,  and  we  were  prisoners. 

The  yelling  still  went  on;  it  confused  my  brain 
so  much  that  I  could  hardly  think,  and  no  doubt  I  felt 
the  horror  of  the  situation  somewhat  less  on  that  ac- 
count. I  saw  that  Mr.  Worboise  was  lying  on  the 
deck  also,  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  bleeding  from  a 
wound  in  the  arm.  I  saw  that  two  of  our  own  boys 
were  dead,  and  the  rest  missing.  There  were  several 
of  the  savages  lying  shot  across  their  canoes,  and  a 
splashing  and  floundering  out  in  the  river,  where  a 
long  scaly  tail  rose  and  lashed  the  water  now  and  then, 
told  of  the  fate  of  others.  The  launch  was  stuck 
fast  on  a  mudbank,  and  the  engine  had  ceased  to  work. 

I  think  I  must  have  been  half  stunned  when  they 
flung  me  down  on  the  deck,  for  I  do  not  remember 
anything  very  clearly  afterwards,  until  I  felt  myself 
being  carried  up  the  ladder  of  the  biggest  ravi,  and 


334  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

into  the  gloom  under  the  great  roof.  Then  my  sense 
came  back,  and  I  looked  about  with  almost  frantic 
attention,  wildly  hoping  for  a  chance  to  escape. 

They  carried  Mr.  Worboise  and  myself  down  the 
endless  tunnel  of  the  great  house,  the  roof  growing 
lower  and  lower  before  us  as  we  advanced,  the  sun- 
light waxing  dimmer.  Curtain  after  curtain  was 
lifted  and  brushed  aside;  mystery  after  mystery  ap- 
peared, dimly  seen  in  the  growing  dusk,  and  faded 
away  again.  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  if  the  giant 
snakes  that  swung  from  the  rafters  were  living  or 
dead.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  nightmare  forms,  toothed 
and  winged  and  finned,  that  flashed  by  in  some  dim 
recess,  may  have  been  —  whether,  indeed,  I  saw  them 
at  all,  or  only  pictured  them,  in  the  terror  of  a  semi- 
crazed  brain.  I  know  that  I  saw  a  drinking-cup  made 
of  a  skull,  and  filled  to  the  brim  with  blood,  set  on 
a  kind  of  altar  a  long  way  down  in  the  ravi,  where 
an  opening  in  the  roof  let  in  a  ray  of  sun  that  smote 
down  on  the  horrors  below  like  the  fire  that  fell  from 
heaven  upon  the  idolaters  of  long  ago.  I  know  that 
there  was  a  smell  of  death  in  the  air,  and  that  skeleton 
hands,  with  the  flesh  withering  away,  brushed  against 
us  as  we  were  carried  past,  and  when  the  end  of  the 
terrible  journey  neared,  and  the  last  curtain  was  lifted, 
that  a  flight  of  hideous  bats,  with  fox-like  heads  and 
huge  whirring  wings,  flapped  their  way  out  of  the 
inner  recess  of  the  ravi  above  our  head  and  flew  away 
down  the  dark  tunnel,  looking  like  evil  spirits  un- 
chained. .  . 

They  were   taking  us   to   the   secret  shrine  —  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  335 

"  Unholy  of  Unholies,"  on  which  no  white  man  or 
woman  might  look,  and  live  thereafter.  Only  too 
well  we  could  guess  why  its  mysteries  were  unveiled 
for  us. 

Within  the  last  curtain,  our  bearers  flung  us  down 
on  the  rickety  palm-sheath  floor,  and  left  us.  Their 
cries  of  derision  echoed  all  through  the  huge  nave  of 
the  building,  as  they  ran  yelping  and  howling  down 
the  ravine  again,  and  left  us  to  ourselves. 

For  several  minutes,  neither  of  us  spoke,  and  then 
I  turned  my  head,  which  was  all  I  could  move,  to  Mr. 
Worboise,  and  asked  him  was  he  badly  hurt. 

"  No,  no  —  nothin'  but  a  prick  of  an  arrer.  'Ave 
they  'urt  you,  Mrs.  Hugh?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

I  reassured  him  as  well  as  I  could,  but  the  poor  old 
man  groaned  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  Lord  forgive  me  that  ever  I  brought  you  to 
such  a  pass,  Mrs.  Hugh  —  and  me  that  would  'ave 
laid  down  my  life  that  willin'  to  save  you  —  and  me 
that  persuaded  you  into  comin'  and  all  —  but  there, 
'oo  was  to  know  that  we'd  'it  on  the  one  time  in  seven 
years  when  no  one  can't  do  nothin'  with  them?  All 
over  the  West,  that  sempsi  business  is,  but  some  'as 
it  at  one  time,  and  some  at  another,  and  the  last 
thing  I'd  ever  'a  thort  was  that  we'd  'it  on  it  here, 
for  they  don't  take  near  so  much  count  of  it  in  the 
Delter  as  they  do  about  the  Fly  River  country.  A 
'undred  thousand  to  one  chance  it  was,  and  it's  'it 
us." 

"  What  will  they  do  with  us  ?  "  I  asked,  trying  to 
keep  the  tremble  out  of  my  voice.  I  had  been  so 


336  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

continually  frightened  ever  since  we  entered  the  Delta 
country,  that  it  seemed  as  if  my  capacity  for  fear  was 
getting  more  or  less  worn  out,  and  I  only  felt  vaguely 
nervous  now. 

Mr.  Worboise  was  silent. 

"  I  tell  you  all  that'll  'appen  to  you,"  he  said  at 
last,  "  and  that'll  be,  gettin'  struck  on  the  'ead  with 
that  empty  revolver  of  yours  "  (it  was  indeed  empty; 
I  could  only  guess  that,  in  my  blind  terror  in  the 
cabin,  I  had  fired  off  every  cartridge  without  knowing 
or  remembering  what  I  did),  "and  dyin'  quick  and 
easy,  before  you  'as  time  to  feel  anythin'.  No  worse, 
Mrs.  Hugh.  You  can  trust  to  me  for  that." 

"And  you?"  I  said. 

But  he  pretended  not  to  hear,  rolling  over  on  the 
creaking  floor  so  as  to  drown  my  voice. 

"  Better  not  think  too  much,  if  we're  to  keep  our 
'eads  clear,"  he  said.  "  Look  round  you,  now  you're 
in  'ere  after  all,  and  see  what  it  is  they  keeps  in  this 
place.  Maybe  we  won't  'ave  the  chance  to  tell,  but  we 
may  as  well  see." 

We  looked,  and  saw.  I  cannot  say  either  of  us 
felt  much  interest  in  the  unraveling  of  mysteries  that 
were  like  to  cost  us  our  lives,  but  all  the  same  we 
took  note  of  our  surroundings. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  ravi,  where  its  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  of  length  and  towering  height  abruptly 
terminated  in  a  small,  sloped  chamber,  dimly  lit  by 
an  aperture  under  the  gable  of  the  low  roof.  Every- 
thing was  dusty  and  brown  —  the  woven  palm-leaf 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  337 

walls,  the  palm-sheath  floor,  the  fiber  curtain  that 
shut  off  the  shrine  from  the  tunnel  beyond.  Long 
arrows  of  powdery  gold  sifted  in  here  and  there 
though  the  roof,  and  showed  the  floating  particles  of 
dust  in  the  still  air.  There  were  no  skulls  here,  no 
human-bone  daggers,  no  nightmare-painted  shields  — 
nothing  at  all  but  a  grim  circle  of  wickerwork  drag- 
ons, seven  of  them,  all  open- jawed  and  red-eyed  like 
the  dragon  we  had  seen  on  the  platform  outside,  but, 
unlike  it,  empty.  How  long  they  might  remain  empty 

—  with  what  food  their  hideous  maws  might  be  fed 

—  neither  my  companion  nor  I  cared  to  speculate. 
Nor  did  we  try  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  scenes  on 
which  these  silent  walls  had  many  a  time  looked  down. 
In  truth  —  I  speak  for  myself,  and,  I  think,  for  my 
companion  too  —  we   thought   as  little  as  we  could 
about  anything  at  all,  lest  our  minds  should  give  way 
under  the  strain  of  the  weight  that  had  been  laid  upon 
them,  and  leave  us  with  not  even  the  last  consolations 
of  all  —  courage  and  prayer. 

The  lances  of  dusty  gold  grew  dim  and  died  away; 
the  evening  calls  of  parrots  and  cockatoos  sounded 
from  the  woody  swamps  outside.  Smells  of  smoke 
arose  from  the  houses;  on  the  river  the  sound  of 
canoe  paddles  beat  up  and  down,  and  cries  of  excite- 
ment mingled  with  the  beating  of  the  village  drums. 
Night  came,  but  wearied  though  we  were,  there  was 
no  sleep  for  us.  We  spoke  but  little ;  our  hearts  were 
too  heavy.  Old  Mr.  Worboise  rolled  over  on  the 
floor  and  sighed  from  time  to  time;  as  for  me,  I 


338  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

watched  the  silent  stars  through  a  little  crevice  in  the 
roof  —  they  seemed  to  give  me  courage  —  and  prayed 
to  Him  Who  made  the  stars,  that  even  now,  He  would 
deliver  us  out  of  the  mouth  of  hell. 


PART  III 

LYNCH'S  STORY 

CHAPTER  XV 

T  HAD  had  many  homes,  in  many  quarters  of  the 
•*•  world,  but  none  that  held  my  fancy  more  than 
that  one. 

Most  people,  I  suppose,  would  have  maintained  that 
no  sane  man  could  possibly  like  to  live  in  such  a 
place.  Most  people  would  have  been,  as  they  usually 
are,  wrong. 

On  the  contrary,  I  should  suppose  that  there  are 
very  many  men  in  the  world  —  men  hurt  as  badly 
as  I  had  been,  and  with  as  much  reason  for  desiring 
a  life  completely  free  and  completely  secret  —  who 
have  dreamed  hopelessly,  time  and  again,  of  just  such  a 
retreat.  I  used  to  think  about  them  sometimes,  when 
the  dusk  was  coming  down  —  that  strange  green  dusk 
of  the  Purari,  that  makes  the  rivers,  and  the  channels, 
and  the  wide  lagoons,  and  the  clumps  of  nipa  and 
sago  palm  all  look  as  if  you  saw  them  through  the 
hollow  emerald  that  Nero  used  to  watch  the  glad- 
iatorial games  with.  I  would  sit  on  my  veranda, 
above  the  water,  with  the  currents  from  the  channels 
outside  swirling  among  the  twenty-foot  piles,  under 
the  house,  and  see  the  last  rays  of  the  evening  light 
disappear  from  the  darkening  agate-green  of  the  inner 
lagoon  that  held  my  tiny  island  in  its  secret  heart, 

339 


340  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  hug  myself  to  think  how  safely  I  was  concealed. 
Outside  the  lagoon  lay  a  maze  of  deadly  swamps, 
deep  and  treacherous  enough  to  engulf  a  hundred 
armies,  and  leave  no  trace;  outside  this,  bewildering 
channels  and  streams  that  wound  in  and  out  and  back 
and  forward,  and  apparently  led  to  nowhere,  outside 
these,  the  three  or  four  largest  rivers  of  the  Delta, 
leading,  after  much  winding  and  wandering,  to  a  coast 
barred  by  dense  mangroves,  and  uncharted  shoals  and 
shallows,  and  opening  at  last  on  the  waters  of  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  seas  in  Australasia.  .  .  . 
Yes,  my  retirement  was  about  as  complete  as  human 
ingenuity,  coupled  to  extraordinary  geographical  con- 
ditions, could  make  it. 

I  used,  as  I  say,  to  think  of  all  those  other  men, 
as  I  smoked  alone  on  my  veranda  of  an  evening  — 
the  men  who  had  "  done  something,"  or  had  some- 
thing done  to  them,  or  who,  like  myself,  carried  both 
burdens.  .  .  .  Had  many  of  them  tried  the  re- 
lief that  I  had  looked  for  and  found,  or  had  they, 
nearly  all,  contented  themselves  with  spouting 
"  Locksley  Hall  "  and  "  gone  back  " —  to  play  billiards, 
and  buttonhole  newcomers,  and  take  short  cuts  out  of 
the  way,  when  people  they  didn't  want  to  meet  heaved 
into  sight? 

I  suppose  they  had,  most  of  them.  I  was  made  of 
other  stuff.  When  I  left  Port  Moresby  jail,  I  wanted 
nothing  more  to  do  with  white  men,  or  with  women, 
white  or  brown.  A  brown  woman  and  a  white,  be- 
tween them,  and  in  different  ways,  had  taken  all  the 
savor  out  of  my  life.  White  men  had  driven  me  to 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  341 

crime,  had  punished  me  for  committing  crime,  had 
made  an  outcast  of  me  for  being  punished.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  had  enough,  and  a  little  over.  I 
am  not  the  kind  that  commits  suicide,  physically,  but 
I  committed  it  morally,  when  I  went  out  into  the  wil- 
derness for  good,  and  I  maintained,  and  still  main- 
tain, that  I  had  ample  reason. 

One  must  live,  however.  Even  in  the  wilds  of 
Papua,  a  white  man  needs  money,  or  its  equivalent. 
Cartridges,  flour,  tea  and  sugar  and  bacon,  trade  stuff 
for  the  natives,  clothes,  books,  and  the  hundred  and 
one  small  necessities  wanted  by  the  white  man  who 
has  not  "  gone  native  "  in  his  retirement,  cannot  be 
procured  for  nothing.  I  turned  sago-getter,  and  sold 
my  stuff  to  a  Malay  dealer  from  Dutch  New  Guinea, 
who  used  to  come  down  into  the  Gulf,  from  the  Dutch 
side  of  the  Fly  River,  and  buy  all  I  could  send  him. 
Then  my  cutter  would  go  up  to  Port  Moresby,  and 
bring  the  goods  I  wanted.  Garia,  who  was  still  with 
me,  was  my  messenger  sometimes;  one  of  my  Kiwai 
boys,  who  cut  and  washed  the  sago,  took  his  place  at 
times.  Both  kept  my  secret. 

I  had  a  good  house  in  "  Lynch  Lagoon  " —  as  I 
christened  the  inner  lake  I  had  chosen  for  my  resi- 
dence. It  was  built  with  a  high  gabled  roof,  and  a 
door  back  and  front,  so  that  there  was  always  cool- 
ness and  a  current  of  fresh  air  blowing  over  the  palm- 
sheath  floor,  through  which  the  green  water  glimmered 
pleasantly  far  below.  The  ladder  to  the  veranda  was 
of  lawyer  cane,  and  I  could  draw  it  up  and  down 
at  will,  making  the  house  at  any  moment  into  a  com- 


342  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

plete  fortress.  There  was  no  furniture  except  a  ham- 
mock, a  box,  and  a  few  mats  and  cooking-pots;  I 
needed  no  more.  But  there  was  solitude  and  cool- 
ness, good  food  (with  native  sago,  and  fish,  and  fruit, 
wild  pig,  cocoanut,  nipa-nut,  baked  yam  and  taro,  and 
parrot-and-pepper  stew,  a  man  needs  few  civilized 
luxuries),  hard  work  when  I  chose,  and  rest  when 
I  chose;  all  the  books  in  the  world  to  keep  me  com- 
pany, if  I  liked  to  send  for  them,  my  pipe  for  com- 
fort, and  my  boat  for  pleasure.  More,  there  were 
adventures  enough  to  fill  a  dozen  volumes,  did  I 
choose  to  write  them,  among  the  wild  tribes  of  the 
Delta,  who  at  first  resented  my  presence  not  a  little 
and  had  to  be  brought  into  line,  in  ways  that  suited 
their  savage  natures,  but  wouldn't  suit  anyone  who  is 
likely  to  read  this  —  so  I  won't  describe  them.  I 
ought  to  have  been  happy,  and  in  some  degree  I  was. 
But  there  were  pricks  here  and  there. 

I  could  not  enjoy  good  novels,  for  one  thing.  A 
novel  always  has  a  love-story  in  it  —  nonsense  about 
women  and  faith  and  trust,  that  I  didn't  believe  in, 
but  that,  all  the  same,  had  power  to  trouble  me.  So 
I  could  only  stock  my  book-box  with  detective  tales 
and  things  of  that  kind. 

I  could  not  sing,  for  my  own  pleasure,  as  I  had  so 
often  been  used  to  do  in  old  days,  having  a  good 
voice,  and  being  popular  on  that  account  among  music- 
loving  friends.  Most  songs,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  are  all  about  lovers  parting  for  ever,  but  loving 
each  other  all  the  same,  or  about  homes  and  firesides 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  343 

and  children,  and  stuff  of  that  kind.  I  didn't  care 
for  them  —  so  I  never  sang. 

The  native  women  used  to  annoy  me,  too.  Garia's 
wife  had  flatly  declined  to  accompany  him  to  the  Delta, 
and,  native  fashion,  had  gone  off  and  married  an- 
other man,  leaving  him  a  widower  —  a  misfortune 
which  did  not  weigh  at  all  severely  upon  his  spirits  — • 
so  there  were  no  petticoats,  even  grass  ones,  about 
my  place.  What  Garia's  loves  among  the  girls  of 
the  Delta  might  be,  I  never  inquired,  so  long  as  none 
of  them  were  obtruded  on  me.  But  I  could  not  avoid 
the  women  when  I  went  into  the  towns,  as  I  did  at 
times,  and  the  very  sight  of  them  annoyed  me.  Over 
and  over  again  the  chiefs,  who  counted  me  a  million- 
aire according  to  Purari  ideas,  offered  me  their  best- 
looking  maidens  to  wife,  for  a  fixed  price,  in  tobacco 
or  fish-hooks  or  scarlet  cloth,  hoping  to  enrich  their 
villages  by  the  connection,  and  over  and  over  again 
I  had  need  of  all  my  diplomacy  to  stave  off  serious 
trouble  on  account  of  my  refusal.  I  would  not  have 
touched  one  of  them  with  a  ten-foot  pole,  if  they 
had  been  as  lovely  as  they  were  actually  hideous.  A 
world  without  women  in  it  was  what  I  wanted,  but, 
as  I  did  not  require  a  world  devoid  of  all  popula- 
tion, I  had  to  put  up  with  the  annoyance  of  their  con- 
tinued existence  somewhere  or  other,  and  avoid  them 
as  best  I  might. 

I  cannot  say  I  thought  very  much  about  Stephanie 
in  those  days.  I  had  trained  myself  pretty  success- 
fully not  to.  The  only  news  that  I  had  had  of  her 


344  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

during  the  years  since  she  had  left  was  indirect  news, 
but  not  the  more  agreeable  for  that.  A  missionary 
living  in  an  out-of-the-way  division  had  told  one  of 
my  boys  that  he  got  ten  pounds  a  year  for  his  mis- 
sion, by  simply  writing  now  and  then  to  tell  a  "  gen- 
tleman in  London "  that  I  wasn't  dead.  Whether 
Stephanie  herself,  or  the  man  who  had  always  wanted 
to  take  her  from  me,  were  the  moving  spirit  in  this, 
I  did  not  know,  but  I  supposed  it  to  be  the  doing  of 
both.  And  I  laughed  to  myself,  to  think  how  that 
meaningless  piece  of  mummery  in  Port  Moresby  Mis- 
sion Church  still  held  three  lives  in  its  grip,  tight  as 
the  alligator  holds  his  prey,  in  the  slime  and  mud  of 
the  Delta  swamps. 

One  afternoon  —  I  shall  long  remember  it  —  I  had 
come  in  early  from  my  sago-cutting,  on  account  of 
the  exceptional  heat,  and  turned  into  my  hammock 
for  a  doze.  It  really  was  exceedingly  warm.  The 
circle  of  palm  and  pandanus  and  mangrove  trees  shut- 
ting in  the  glassy  mirror  of  "  Lynch's  Lagoon  "  was 
so  deadly  still  that  you  could  not  see  where  the  divid- 
ing line  between  the  drooping  foliage  in  the  air  and 
its  painted  presentment  in  the  water  began  or  ended. 
The  sky  was  black  with  heat,  and  the  shadows  had 
the  peculiar  brassy  tinge  that  one  only  notices  on  the 
worst  of  Delta  days.  Real  shadow,  indeed,  there 
was  none,  save  in  my  house ;  and  I  was  thankful  to  get 
my  head  beneath  the  grateful  darkness  of  its  roof, 
and  lie  down  to  rest,  promising  myself  a  dip  inside 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  345 

my  alligator  fence,  as  soon  as  the  sun  should  have 
gone  down. 

I  dozed  off  almost  at  once;  the  last  thing  I  re- 
membered was  the  slow  lip-lap  of  the  burning-hot 
water  under  the  house  and  the  steady  crackle  —  like 
the  sound  of  sticks  in  a  fire  —  given  off  by  the  thatch 
of  the  roof,  under  the  scorching  rays  of  the  three- 
o'clock  sun. 

It  seemed  to  me  by  and  by,  that  I  woke,  partly, 
and  recognized  my  surroundings,  but  that  I  still  con- 
tinued half-asleep,  and  dreaming  a  little.  I  dreamed 
an  absurd  dream  —  that  I  heard  the  beat  of  a  pro- 
peller. 

That,  of  course,  was  quite  impossible,  on  the  Purari, 
and  I  turned  myself  round  in  the  hammock  with  a 
jerk,  and  settled  my  head  on  the  cool  silk-cotton  pil- 
low. I  wanted  to  sleep  soundly,  not  to  lie  half  awake 
and  see  and  hear  things  that  did  not  exist. 

The  roof  crackled  in  the  sun,  a  fish  in  the  lagoon 
below  leaped  and  fell  with  a  splash.  A  dull  bumping 
and  thumping  of  far-away  thunder  rolled  down  the 
lonely  waterways,  and  died  away  in  the  distance. 
.  .  .  Sleepy  beyond  expression,  I  seemed  to  fade 
away  with  the  sound,  and  drop  down  below  the  hori- 
zon into  a  gulf  of  infinite  rest.  .  .  . 

There,  again!  I  was  almost  broad  awake.  What 
nonsense !  It  was  utterly  impossible  —  and  yet  it  did 
sound  like  the  faint,  faint  beat  of  a  propeller  a  very 
long  way  off  —  several  miles  at  least  —  no  louder 
than  the  throb  of  a  man's  own  heart  when  he  wakes 


346  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

and  listens  to  it  in  the  night  —  the  lonely,  cruel 
night.  .  .  . 

"  Garia !  "  I  yelled  to  a  formless  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh !  "  answered  my  servant,  waking  with  some 
difficulty,  and  sitting  up  stiffly  —  he  was  not  as  young 
as  he  had  been;  near  thirty-five  by  now,  and  that  is 
late  middle-age  for  a  native. 

"  You  been  hearem  steamer  ?  " 

"  Sitima,  Taubada?  you  gammoning  me!"  an- 
swered the  Motuan  with  an  air  of  bewilderment. 

I  listened  again,  but  there  was  nothing. 

"  Must  have  been  dreaming,"  I  said.  I  lay  down 
again,  and  slept  this  time. 

When  I  woke,  it  was  late,  and  almost  dark.  Garia 
was  gone  out  serenading,  or  its  Papuan  equivalent, 
in  the  nearest  village,  I  had  no  doubt.  I  took  my 
swim,  keeping  carefully  within  the  fence,  for  Lynch's 
Lagoon  was  rather  a  favorite  spot  with  egg-laying 
alligators  —  lit  my  lamp,  found  a  book,  and  settled 
myself  on  the  veranda,  to  wait  until  Garia  should  re- 
turn and  get  my  supper. 

He  was  some  time  about  it.  The  evening  darkened 
into  night ;  the  moon  came  up  from  behind  the  circling 
wall  of  palms,  and  turned  the  water-floor  of  my  do- 
main to  a  pavement  of  shining  pearl.  Green  fireflies 
danced  about  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  hung  them- 
selves like  fairy  torches  all  along  the  fringes  of  the 
thatch.  Still,  not  a  sign  of  Garia,  and  I  was  getting 
hungry. 

In  truth,  he  did  not  appear  till  nearly  nine  o'clock, 
and  by  that  time  I  was  so  angry  that  I  nearly  kicked 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  347 

him  off  the  ladder  into  the  lagoon,  as  he  climbed  up. 
I  would  have  done  so,  only  that  I  thought  he  was 
sure  to  clear  the  alligator  fence  in  his  fall,  and  I 
had  more  than  a  notion  that  there  was  a  lady  alligator 
out  laying  eggs  in  the  dark,  just  opposite  the  house. 

He  was,  of  course,  exceedingly  apologetic,  and  full 
of  explanations,  as  was  always  the  case  when  he  had 
outstayed  his  leave.  I  paid  small  heed  to  him ;  the 
explanations,  as  usual,  were  largely  "  girl,"  and  that 
was  a  subject  I  barred.  Ordering  him  to  get  my  sup- 
per at  once,  and  stop  talking,  I  flung  myself  on  a  mat 
on  the  veranda,  and  lay  there  smoking  and  watching 
the  moonlight  spread  across  the  lake,  in  a  frame  of 
mind  by  no  means  correspondent  with  the  peace  and 
beauty  of  the  night. 

Garia  was  afraid  of  my  ill-humors  when  they  came, 
and  he  set  about  his  work  at  once,  making  a  great  clat- 
tering with  the  tin  cooking-utensils,  and  blowing  os- 
tentatiously at  the  embers  of  the  fire  that  was  us- 
ually kept  smoldering,  native  fashion,  on  a  bed  of  white 
ashes. 

I  have  often  wondered,  since,  what  would  have  hap- 
pened that  night,  had  Garia's  cooking  been  a  little  less 
good  than  it  was  —  had  my  ill-humor,  unassuaged  by 
a  full  meal,  held  so  far  as  to  compel  him  to  silence. 
I  have,  just  as  often,  flinched  away  from  the  inevita- 
ble reply. 

But  the  food  was  good,  though  it  came  late,  and 
after  I  had  satisfied  my  hunger,  my  annoyance  died 
down,  and  I  beckoned  with  a  finger  to  my  servant. 
I  had  seen  that  he  was  bursting  with  some  strange 


348  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

piece  of  news,  and  was  not  averse  from  hearing  it, 
after  all.  News  is  news,  even  in  the  Purari  Delta. 

"  Where  you  been  stop  all  this  time  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Go  along  place  plenty  mud,  plenty  water  he  stop, 
long  way,  see  girl  belong  Doravi,"  he  began  eagerly. 

"  Confound  you  and  your  girls,"  said  I.  "  Tell  the 
story  without  any  girls  in  it,  or  go  off  to  your  mat 
and  sleep.  I've  no  doubt  at  all  you  went  to  see  some 
of  your  girls,  or  that  you  took  them  more  of  my  to- 
bacco and  tinned  salmon  than  you'd  any  right  to. 
Skip  the  girls,  and  come  to  the  story." 

"  Taubada  —  no  can  tell,  no  tell  along  girl,"  remon- 
strated Garia.  Then,  very  quickly,  and  watching  my 
eye  all  the  time  — "  All  girl  belong  Doravi,  he  go  long 
way  away  Doravi,  he  go  walk  about  mud,  catsing  trab, 
sleeping  'long  bush  — " 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  if  they  did." 

"  Taubada,  you  hearem  me  —  man  he  maken 
'  sempsi '  'long  Doravi,  woman  he  go  stop  bush  all-a- 
time." 

"I've  heard  about  the  'sempsi'  before;  it's  the 
greatest  nuisance  in  the  West.  Get  me  a  drink,  you 
chattering  cockatoo  and  hold  your  tongue,  if  you  can." 

Garia  went  outside  to  the  water-bag,  and  returned 
with  a  full  pannikin.  My  mouth  being  temporarily 
closed  immediately  after,  he  seized  his  opportunity, 
and  went  on,  fast  as  he  could  — 

"  That  girl  he  makem  thing  Motua  man  he  call 
'  aani ' —  he  sit  down,  he  make  good  sing  — 

"  And  you  paid  for  their  singing  with  my  tinned 
goods  and  fish-hooks,  I  suppose?"  I  said,  yawning. 


349 

I  was  growing  sleepy  and  it  seemed  easier  to  endure 
the  yarn,  than  to  stop  it. 

"  No,  I  no  give  nobody  nothing,"  protested  Garia 
virtuously.  "  I  hearum  that  girl  sing,  very  good  he 
sing,  I  no  savvy  all  that-fellow  Purari  talk,  some 
little-bit  talk  I  savvy,  girl  he  sing  along  *  sempsi/  he 
sing  along  boat  —  big  boat,  he  say,  all  same  rui  (dug- 
ong)  make  noise  all  same  rui,  he  come  down  water, 
going  Doravi,  white  man  all  same  Lineti  he  stop, 
'nother  white  man  no  all  same  he  stop,  that  fellow  he 
gottem  one  leg,  no  two  leg,  he  gottem  breast,  same 
woman,  he  gottem  talk  belong  him,  same  woman,  that 
two  people,  six  Papua  boy,  he  go  along  Doravi,  woman 
belong  Doravi  he  look  out  'long  bush,  he  flenty  fright. 
By-'n'-by  that  woman  he  say  that  two  feofle  he  dead, 
suppose  he  go  look  along  Doravi,  woman  he  flenty 
glad,  he  fright  along  that  boat,  along  that  feofle." 

It  is  almost  incredible,  but  true,  that  at  the  moment, 
I  did  not  understand.  The  Delta  is  full  of  extraor- 
dinary yarns,  largely  concerned  with  sorcery,  devils, 
and  unbelievable  apparitions  of  every  kind,  and  this 
really  sounded  rather  like  one  of  the  usual  sort,  per- 
haps a  little  more  highly-colored  than  usual,  with  its 
one-legged,  woman-breasted  man,  and  its  boat  that 
breathed  like  a  dugong.  .  .  .  Then,  like  a  lightning 
flash,  there  struck  into  my  mind  that  dream  of  the 
afternoon  —  the  sound  of  the  propeller.  .  .  .  Had 
it  been  a  dream  after  all  —  and  if  not.  .  .  . 

God  Almighty !  if  a  white  man  and  white  woman  had 
gone  into  Doravi  —  had  gone  at  the  time  of  the 
'  sempsi '  .  .  . 


350  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"One  leg!"  Why,  that  was  a  skirt.  "Talk  be- 
long woman "...  and  the  rest.  .  .  . 

Once  before,  in  my  lifetime,  when  events  were 
crashing  about  my  head  like  stones,  and  past  and  fu- 
ture hung  in  the  balance  of  a  single  minute,  I  had 
seen,  by  a  power  I  cannot  account  for,  the  thing  that 
had  come  to  pass  far  away  from  me  —  had  known, 
with  the  same  certainty,  what  was  about  to  come  to 
pass.  I  saw,  and  knew,  now.  I  knew  who  the  woman 
was.  I  saw  what  her  fate  would  be. 

Garia  has  told  me  since  that  he  thought  I  was  struck 
with  madness.  There  may  have  been  some  excuse 
for  such  an  idea.  Most  of  the  movable  things  in 
the  house  took  wings  during  the  next  few  minutes,  and 
flew  about  the  walls  and  floor.  The  building  trembled 
on  its  long-legged  piles.  The  captive  cockatoos  I  kept 
as  night-guards  to  the  house  woke  up  and  screamed 
blue  ruin  on  the  roof.  ...  I  was  looking  for 
something  —  for  several  things  —  and  I  wanted  to 
find  them  in  a  hurry. 

When  I  found  them  (they  included  a  dark  lantern 
that  I  used  for  fishing,  two  rifles,  a  couple  of  ban- 
doliers of  cartridges,  and  a  small  packet  that  I  stowed 
carefully  away  in  the  pocket  of  my  shirt),  I  took 
Garia  by  the  neck,  and  dropped  him  down  the  ladder. 

"  The  canoe !  "  I  said. 

Something  in  my  manner  had  no  doubt  suggested 
by  this  time  that  I  was  in  a  hurry.  Garia  darted  un- 
derneath the  house,  and  had  the  canoe  out  almost  be- 
fore I  was  down  the  ladder  myself. 

Outside  the  lagoon,  in  a  wide  stream  leading  to  the 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  351 

main  channel,  my  cutter  was  moored.  We  shot 
through  the  byways  of  the  water-maze  as  the  eel  shoots 
through  the  roots  of  the  nipa  palms,  and  fairly  flung 
ourselves  on  the  cutter's  deck.  The  canoe  was  lifted 
up,  the  sweeps  got  out,  and  we  rowed  and  punted 
breathlessly  through  the  twisting  channels,  out  into 
the  wind  and  the  moonlight,  and  the  wide  waters  of 
the  open  river. 

Doravi  lay  to  leeward  of  us,  and  the  night-breeze 
was  strong;  the  current,  too,  was  in  our  favor.  My 
cutter  flew  through  the  water,  leaving  a  boiling  wake 
behind  her,  and  shipping  a  continuous  stream  of  Pu- 
rari  river  over  her  gunwale.  But  fast  as  she  went, 
my  thoughts  went  faster.  Should  I  be  in  time? 
—  should  I  be  in  time?  And  if  I  were  not?  .  .  . 

"  O  my  darling,  my  own  lost  darling  —  to  find  you 
and  lose  you  like  this !  "  I  was  crying  out  in  my  soul, 
as  the  cutter  fled  over  the  empty,  moon-whitened  wa- 
ters, through  the  gorgeous  tropic  night.  "  Stephanie ! 
Stephanie !  what  devils  have  made  sport  of  your  life 
and  mine ! " 

I  knew  my  way  well  about  these  streams,  and  I 
knew  how  far  the  cutter  could  go  with  safety.  We 
were  still  a  good  half-mile  from  Doravi  when  I  brought 
to  and  got  out  into  the  canoe,  warning  Garia  to  wait 
for  me,  on  pain  of  having  his  brains  blown  out  if  he 
failed. 

I  had  taken  time,  in  my  hurried  preparations,  to 
change  my  light  clothes  for  a  dark  shirt  and  trousers. 
Now  I  halted  for  a  moment,  scooped  up  a  handful 


352  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

of  the  river  mud,  and  rubbed  it  well  over  my  face  and 
hands.  Thus  protected,  I  hoped  to  pass  unseen  in 
shadow,  and  as  for  the  moonlight  (which  I  cursed  in 
my  heart),  I  must  keep  out  of  it  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. 

Gliding  silently  through  the  intricate  waterways 
that  form  the  secret  approach  to  Doravi,  I  came  be- 
fore long  into  a  small,  half -hidden  stream,  where, 
through  an  opening  veiled  with  creepers,  I  could  safely 
survey  the  town.  None  knew  better  than  I  that  the 
celebration  of  these  religious  mysteries  barred  the  way. 
to  open  approach  —  even  for  me,  though  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  I  was  free  to  pass  as  I  liked.  In 
the  time  of  the  "  sempsi  "  interference  from  a  stranger 
meant  death. 

The  whole  place  had  a  marvelous  appearance;  if 
I  had  come  on  any  other  errand,  I  should  have  been 
struck  with  admiration.  The  main  waterway  of  the 
town  was  like  a  fair  —  every  house  was  lighted  up  with 
torches,  every  canoe  carried  a  burning  palm-stump, 
and  there  was  bustle  and  movement  upon  all  the  plat- 
forms, while  the  gorgeousness  of  the  feather  head- 
dresses, the  elaboration  of  the  painting  on  faces,  limbs, 
and  bodies,  exceeded  anything  of  the  kind  that  I  had 
ever  seen.  The  tall  gables  of  the  ravis  were  not,  as 
usual,  open,  but  were  filled  in  with  huge  veils  of  na- 
tive matting,  each  as  large  as  the  drop-curtain  of  a 
good-sized  theater.  Through  the  curtains  a  dull,  lurid 
glow  shone  down  upon  the  river,  and  dark  shadows 
could  be  seen  flitting  to  and  fro.  What  might  be 
doing  behind  any  one  of  those  mysterious  screens- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  353 

what  assuredly  would  be  doing  behind  most  of  them 
before  the  morning  —  I  could  guess,  but  I  did  not  dare 
to  picture  to  myself,  lest  I,  even  I,  should  lose  the  nerve 
that  never  yet  had  failed  me. 

The  next  question  was  —  had  the  white  strangers 
by  any  chance  missed  Doravi,  or,  not  missing  it,  had 
they  escaped? 

"  A  steam-launch  ought  to  have  given  them  a  chance 
of  getting  off,"  I  said  to  myself,  peering  through  the 
creepers,  "if  they  ...  .  Ah!" 

They  had  not  missed  Doravi  —  nor  had  Doravi 
missed  them.  There  was  the  launch,  gutted  of  every 
movable,  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. 

I  sat  in  my  canoe,  and  thought,  determinedly  beat- 
ing down  the  paralyzing  fears  that  began  to  wind 
themselves  like  snakes  about  my  heart.  ...  If 
they  were  still  alive,  they  would  be  imprisoned  in  the 
largest  and  most  important  of  the  ravis  —  probably 
bound  and  guarded,  since  none  of  the  houses  were 
solid  enough  to  act  as  a  prison  in  the  ordinary  sense. 
They  would  be  put  in  the  rear  of  the  ravi,  while  the 
sorcerers  were  carrying  out  their  ceremonies  in  front. 

.  .  If  one  could  attract  the  guards  to  the  front 
—  could  concentrate  all  attention  there  for  just  five 
minutes.  .  .  . 

I  felt  in  my  pocket  for  what  I  had  stowed  away, 
and  considered. 

Fire?  No.  I  might  creep  underneath  the  ravi 
without  being  seen,  but  it  was  another  matter  to  set 
fire  to  heavy,  damp-soaked  piles,  without  attracting 
notice.  And  if  I  did  succeed  in  lighting  some  portion 


354  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

of  the  supports  or  flooring,  it  would  be  seen  and  put 
out  before  any  harm  could  be  done.  .  .  .  No; 
the  other  way  was  best. 

I  inspected  the  small  fire-pot  I  had  brought  with 
me,  to  avoid  the  necessity  of  striking  matches.  The 
hot  brands  were  alive  underneath  the  ashes.  .  .  . 
It  must  be  tried;  there  was  no  other  way. 

Back  into  the  tangle  of  channels  I  pushed  the  canoe, 
and  began  threading  my  way  with  the  utmost  caution 
round  to  the  rear  of  the  ravis.  The  scene  was  weird 
enough  to  have  delighted  the  heart  of  a  Dante.  The 
moon  had  climbed  high  overhead  now,  and  through 
the  dense  roof  of  tangled  creepers  and  orchids,  her 
silver  spears  struck  down  into  the  depths  of  the  inky 
water  over  which  I  glided.  To  right  and  left  of  the 
channel,  the  oozy  mud  was  boiling  with  hideous  life 
— •  crabs,  water-snakes,  things  many-legged  and 
horned,  things  feelered,  carapaced,  shining,  lithe,  with- 
out a  name.  On  one  side  of  the  canoe  stretched  the 
trackless  maze  of  the  swamps:  on  the  other,  through 
the  screen  of  bushes  and  low-growing  palms,  the  sin- 
ister lights  of  the  ravis  burned  like  the  mouth  of  hell. 
Once,  as  I  swung  abruptly  round  a  turn  into  the  dark, 
I  saw  the  head  of  a  monstrous  alligator,  streaked  and 
rayed  with  green  phosphorescence,  rise  out  of  the 
water;  its  eyes  burned  in  the  gloom  like  emerald 
lamps,  and  the  double  line  of  tusks  in  its  extended 
jaws  showed  faintly  white.  ...  It  was  gone  in 
an  instant,  but  I  bent  to  my  paddle,  and  flew  down  the 
water-lane,  for  I  knew  that  near  a  village,  such  mon- 
sters as  this  were  bold  enough  to  knock  even  a  large 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  355 

boat  over,  and  pull  the  paddlers  out,  as  a  man  might 
rip  a  row  of  peas  from  a  shell. 

There!  that  was  the  great  ravi  now,  sloping  down 
to  the  mud  only  a  few  yards  away  from  me,  the  tall 
gable  at  the  other  end  pricking  the  sky  quite  a  long 
way  away.  At  my  end,  there  was  a  low  wall  of  bark 
and  split  branches,  raised  above  the  mud  on  piles  some 
six  feet  high;  the  roof  came  down  to  meet  it  at  a 
sharply  sloping  angle.  The  chamber  within  must  be 
small;  it  could  not  accommodate  many  guards. 
Were  they  there? 

I  slipped  out  of  the  canoe,  and  lay  down  flat  upon 
the  surface  of  the  yielding  slime,  supported  by  a  wide 
piece  of  planking  I  had  brought  for  that  purpose. 
Holding  to  this,  and  working  my  arms  and  legs,  I  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  underneath  the  end  of  the  ravi. 
Here  I  left  the  plank,  and  climbing  up  one  of  the  sup- 
ports, began  very  cautiously  to  make  a  hole  in  the 
floor  with  my  knife. 

It  was  not  a  difficult  matter ;  the  palm-sheaths  gave 
way  almost  at  once  and  my  fingers  slipped  through. 
I  put  my  eye  to  the  opening,  but  the  darkness  within 
was  complete.  I  listened.  Somebody  was  breathing 
—  two  people  were  breathing  —  one  asleep,  and  one, 
I  thought,  awake. 

If  these  were  natives,  and  I  attracted  their  atten- 
tion, my  life,  and  what  I  valued  infinitely  more,  that 
other  life,  would  not  be  worth  a  minute's  purchase. 
If  they  were  whites,  it  was  imperatively  necessary  to 
communicate  with  them  and  warn  them  of  what  I 
was  going  to  do.  Yet,  how  to  manage  it? 


356  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

I  could  think  of  no  plan  but  the  risky  one  of  put- 
ting my  hand  further  through,  and  feeling  about. 
Touch  would  certainly  tell  me  what  I  wanted  to  know, 
and  if  I  alarmed  a  cannibal  guard  by  mistake  —  well, 
as  Nelson  said,  something  must  always  be  left  to 
chance.  The  risk  had  to  be  taken. 

Very,  very  cautiously  I  slipped  my  fingers  through, 
and  touched  —  a  hand. 

I  gritted  my  teeth  together,  and  waited.  In  the 
front  end  of  the  ravi  lights  flashed  to  and  fro,  foot- 
steps beat  on  the  rickety  floors,  long  chanting  cries 
arose.  Under  the  house,  the  crabs  and  water-snakes 
made  a  creeping  noise.  There  was  no  other  sound. 

I  reached  up  again,  and  clasped  the  hand  firmly,  and 
then  my  heart  gave  a  jump,  for  I  felt  that  it  was 
bound  —  tied  tightly  round  the  wrist  with  a  cord  of 
native  fibers.  The  fingers  were  small  and  slight,  and 
stirred  feebly  in  my  hold.  It  was  a  left  hand  —  a 
woman's  hand  —  and  on  the  third  finger  were  two 
rings  —  one  a  heavy  carved  ring  with  a  very  large 
stone,  the  other  a  plain  smooth  band.  .  .  . 

I  knew  the  rings  —  I  knew  the  hand  —  and  I  knew 
that  here,  in  the  very  shadow  and  maw  of  death,  those 
hands  that  had  been  joined  together  in  Port  Moresby 
Mission  Church,  ten  years  ago,  had  met  again  at  last. 

One  has  no  time  for  great  emotions,  when  life  is 
hanging  by  a  thread;  the  discovery  scarcely  moved 
me  at  all.  I  was  only  anxious  that  my  hand  should 
be  recognized  as  that  of  a  white  man  and  a  friend,  and 
I  pressed  the  little  fingers  strongly.  They  answered 
as  best  they  could. 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  357 

Now,  there  is  scarcely  a  girl  in  the  world  who  does 
not  know  the  schoolgirl  alphabet  of  secret  communi- 
cation —  one  rap  for  A,  two  for  B,  and  so  on.  I 
guessed  that  Stephanie  (for  I  was  as  sure  it  was  she 
as  if  I  had  seen  her  face)  would  not  be  different  from 
the  majority  of  her  sex  in  this  matter,  and  I  began 
to  rap,  touching  her  fingers  lightly. 

"  Are  you  watched ?. "  I  asked. 

The  fingers  stirred,  and  feebly  struck  on  mine  four- 
teen times  —  then  paused  —  then  struck  fifteen  times. 

"  No." 

"Who  else?"  I  rapped,  economizing  every  useless 
word. 

"Worb — "  began  the  hand.  I  pressed  it  to  show 
I  understood. 

"Don't  fear"  I  rapped.  Our  fingers  met  in  a 
long,  close  pressure.  Then  I  slipped  my  knife  up 
through  the  opening,  and  very  carefully  cut  the  cord, 
first  from  one  wrist,  and  afterwards  from  the  other. 
I  heard  the  faintest  little  whisper  pass  above  my  head, 
and  then  another  hand,  heavy  and  stout,  was  laid 
above  the  opening.  I  cut  the  bonds  of  this  also 
and  passed  the  knife  through  the  opening.  It  was 
taken. 

I  still  feared  to  speak,  knowing  the  keen  ears  of  the 
natives,  and  knowing  that  they  could  not  be  more  than 
a  few  yards  away ;  but  I  beat  out  on  Stephanie's  hand, 
"  Wait  noise"  and  then  dropped  down  into  the  mud 
again. 

Like  an  eel  I  wriggled  myself  forward,  underneath 
the  floor  of  the  ravi,  which  overhung  my  head  some 


358  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

five  or  six  feet  above  me.  Light  began  to  show 
through  the  palm-sheaths  after  I  had  gone  some  way, 
and  I  could  see  the  feet  of  natives  passing  up  and 
down.  The  chanting  had  ceased;  everyone  seemed 
engaged  in  carrying  things  from  place  to  place,  and 
setting  them  in  order.  Of  a  sudden,  as  I  looked  and 
listened,  all  the  movement  ceased,  and  there  was  a 
great  silence. 

I  liked  this  not  at  all,  and  I  liked  it  less  when  one 
voice  —  probably  that  of  the  head  sorcerer  —  rose  in 
a  loud  droning  monotone,  evidently  making  a  speech. 
From  what  I  knew  of  man-eaters,  this  was  likely  to 
be  the  preliminary  to  the  final  act.  There  was  no 
time  to  waste. 

I  carried  the  little  fire-pot  in  my  teeth ;  my  fuse  was 
cut  and  ready.  I  judged  myself  to  be  now  almost  at 
the  front  of  the  ravi,  full  four  hundred  feet  from 
where  Stephanie  and  Worboise  were  imprisoned.  The 
charge  was  a  small  one  —  I  trusted  it  would  do  no 
more  than  it  was  meant  to. 

Three  lives  hung  upon  my  fingers  as  I  put  the  stick 
of  dynamite  in  its  place,  but  I  made  no  noise.  The 
crackling  of  the  fuse  was  very  faint,  and  the  droning 
voice  of  the  sorcerer  masked  it  completely. 

I  dropped  back  into  the  mud  and  made  my  way  un- 
derneath the  ravi  again,  a  good  deal  faster  than  I  had 
come.  The  fuse  was  a  long  one,  and  ought  to  give 
me  time;  still  .  .  . 

Underneath  the  far  end  again,  I  clung  to  the  sup- 
porting posts,  breathless,  and  listened,  wondering  the 
while  how  long  I  could  stop  there  without  being 


359 

picked  up  by  an  alligator ;  I  knew  there  must  be  plenty 
about. 

The  droning  voice  of  the  sorcerer  paused  —  went 
on  again  —  rose  to  a  higher  pitch  —  and  ceased. 
Then  broke  out  a  yell  that  set  the  hair  crisping  on  my 
head.  I  began  scrambling  up  the  post,  resolved  at 
least  to  defend  her  as  far  as  I  could  and  die  with  her, 
if  I  could  not  save  her  —  die  after  her,  rather;  I 
would  see  to  that  —  when  — 

Crash!  the  fuse  had  not  failed  me  after  all.  The 
ravi  shook  to  its  foundations.  The  forward  gable 
leaped,  burst,  and  splashed  down  into  the  river.  Bits 
of  palm-sheath,  drums,  shields,  skulls  and  weapons 
went  hurtling  through  the  air.  The  sides  of  the  ravi 
opened  out  like  a  basket  struck  by  a  sudden  blow,  and 
fell  right  and  left  in  splintered  ruins.  A  chorus  of 
terrified  howls  arose  out  of  the  momentary  silence 
that  had  followed  the  explosion,  and  then  came  a 
sound  of  popping  and  splashing,  as  if  some  giant  were 
throwing  handfuls  of  stones  into  the  river.  It  was 
the  men  of  Doravi,  plunging,  wild  with  terror,  into 
the  stream.  Some,  I  had  no  doubt,  were  left  behind, 
never  to  stir  again ;  the  charge  was  big  enough  to  have 
killed  a  good  many,  though  not  so  much  by  direct  con- 
cussion as  by  the  falling  of  the  beams  and  pillars.  In 
truth,  it  had  been  almost  too  large,  for  the  far  end  of 
the  ravi  was  badly  shaken,  and  the  roof  there  was 
within  an  ace  of  falling  in. 

I  scarcely  waited  to  see  what  damage  had  been 
done,  before  tearing  aside  the  opening  in  the  floor,  and 
squeezing  myself  in. 


3<x>  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

"  Worboise,  can  you  move  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  Yes,  I've  cut  myself  and  'er  quite  free,"  came  the 
answer. 

"  Stir  yourself,  then  —  I've  given  them  a  dose  that's 
frightened  them  off  for  a  bit,  but  there's  no  knowing 
they  may  not  come  back.  Lower  her  through  this 
opening  to  me;  I'll  get  her  to  the  canoe." 

With  some  difficulty  it  was  done,  and  Stephanie 
(who  most  fortunately  had  been  tied  up  only  an  hour 
or  two,  and  so  was  able  to  move)  conveyed  through 
the  swamp  to  the  canoe.  I  found  it  possible  to  sup- 
port her  on  the  plank,  and,  leaning  on  it  myself,  to 
work  gradually  along  into  the  open  water.  I  do  not 
think  that  any  other  white  man  could  have  done  so 
much  without  drowning  himself  or  his  charge,  or 
both ;  but  I  had  been  two  years  in  the  Delta  now,  and 
had  become  almost  as  active  in  the  swamps,  on  occa- 
sion, as  the  natives  themselves,  though  the  art  which 
they  possess  of  actually  swimming  in  the  semi-liquid 
slime  still  was  beyond  my  powers. 

To  get  Worboise  through  was  another  matter,  and 
more  than  once  we  both  came  near  suffocation.  How- 
ever, it  was  done  at  last,  and  I  had  them  both  safe  in 
the  canoe,  which  was  a  double  one,  meant  for  several 
paddles.  Worboise  was  nearly  as  good  a  paddler  as 
myself,  allowing  for  the  difference  in  age,  and  I  prom- 
ise you  we  made  that  dug-out  go,  once  we  were  clear 
of  the  maze  surrounding  the  town,  where  one  had  to 
turn  and  twist  at  every  minute. 

I  scarcely  cast  a  glance  behind  to  see  what  the  na- 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  361 

tives  were  doing;  I  could  hear,  however,  by  the  fran- 
tic cries  and  the  wild  beating  of  paddles,  that  they 
were  rushing  up  and  down  the  town,  seeking  the  cause 
of  the  disaster,  which  no  doubt  they  put  down  to  some 
enemy  assisted  by  attendant  demons.  The  only  thing 
I  really  feared  was  that  they  would  seek  safety  in  the 
open  rivers,  and  so  come  upon  us.  They  did  not, 
however.  We  cleared  the  town  and  the  maze  unmo- 
lested, and  reached  the  cutter  safely. 

The  wind  which  had  brought  us  down  so  easily  was 
not  a  fair  one  for  returning,  and  we  had  to  beat  our 
way  back  up  the  main  stream,  taking  some  hours  on 
the  way.  All  that  time  I  never  saw  Stephanie's  face. 
She  lay  in  the  tiny  cabin,  where  I  had  put  her  on 
reaching  the  cutter,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  complete 
exhaustion.  We  had  not  spoken  during  the  perilous 
journey  in  the  canoe.  That  one  clasp  of  the  hand, 
and  a  few  hurried  words  of  encouragement,  were  all 
that  had  passed  between  us. 

Worboise  made  up  for  any  conversational  omis- 
sions, however.  The  hardy  old  man  was  not  a  bit  dis- 
tressed by  his  short  imprisonment,  and  he  had  the  ar- 
rears of  several  years  of  silence  to  make  up.  His 
tongue  never  ceased,  from  the  moment  we  boarded 
the  cutter,  until  we  reached  the  opening  into  Lynch's 
Lagoon.  There,  we  transshipped  again  into  the 
canoe,  and  he  was  silent. 

For  once,  I  had  not  grudged  a  word  of  what  he 
said;  I  drank  in  every  syllable.  Many  things  were 
made  clear  in  that  slow  sail  up  the  river.  Many  mists 


362  WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL 

were  rolled  away  from  my  life  —  from  my  life  and 
Stephanie's. 

I  helped  her  up  the  ladder,  when  we  reached  the 
house,  and  lit  the  lamp  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  Worboise  and  I  will  stop  outside  on  the  veranda 
for  a  bit,"  I  said.  "  You  can  tell  us  when  you're 
ready  for  us.  All  my  things  are  there ;  take  what  you 
want.  We'll  stop  here  to-night,  and  sail  down  to 
Daru  or  Yule  Island  to-morrow.  You're  as  safe  here 
as  if  you  were  in  Windsor  Castle;  Doravi  doesn't 
know  anything,  and  if  it  did,  three  of  us  could  hold 
the  place  for  a  year." 

She  went  in  without  a  word.  Out  on  the  veranda, 
Worboise  and  I  sat  and  smoked  and  talked.  The 
moon  was  sinking  low;  the  palm  and  pandanus  walls 
of  the  lagoon  were  shot  with  a  weft  of  silver.  I 
looked  on  the  lake  and  the  boat,  and  the  one  brown 
fortress  house,  with  eyes  of  farewell.  I  knew  that 
I  should  never  see  the  moonlight  on  my  Purari  home 
again. 

Garia,  down  in  the  canoe,  was  chewing  betel-nut 
and  looking  up  at  the  sky.  I  do  not  know  what  he 
was  thinking  of;  but  he  laughed  now  and  then. 

It  was  waxing  late,  when  a  little  movement  at  my 
elbow,  like  the  fluttering  wing  of  a  bird,  made  me  look 
up,  and  in  the  light  streaming  out  across  the  veranda 
from  the  room  behind,  I  saw  —  Stephanie. 

She  had  taken  a  sky-blue  flannel  shirt  of  mine  out 
of  the  box  and  put  it  on.  She  had,  in  some  miracu- 
lous way,  removed  most  of  the  stains  of  mud  from 


WHEN  THE  RED  GODS  CALL  363 

her  skirt.  She  had  piled  her  curly  hair  high  on  her 
head,  and  bound  it  with  a  gay  silk  tie  —  mine  also. 
In  the  tired  pallor  of  her  face,  her  eyes  shone  like 
blue  water-lilies ;  and  her  sweet  mouth  smiled  — 
smiled  as  on  that  day  so  long  ago,  when  we  had  stood 
together  on  the  deck  of  the  Merrie  England  and  seen 
the  white  seas  break  into  foam  beneath  our  keel,  to 
bear  us  on  our  wedding  journey. 

I  opened  my  arms,  and  my  bride  came  home. 

I  don't  suppose  it  was  more  than  a  few  seconds 
after  that,  when  we,  who  had  quite  forgotten  earth 
and  all  it  contained,  heard  the  sharp  splash  of  pad- 
dles underneath  the  veranda,  and  the  grumble  of  a  dis- 
contented voice,  fading  further  and  further  away  — 

"  Cutter     .     .     .     river     .     .     .     not    wanted    here. 
» 

Stephanie  leaned  over  the  rail,  her  eyes  sparkling 
witH  laughter,  and  with  something  else. 

"  Oh,  poor  old  man !  "  she  said.  "  We've  quite  for- 
gotten him !  " 

"Well,  and  if  we  have?"  said  I.  "He  isn't 
wanted !  " 


ENVOI 

There  is  a  rubber  plantation,  high  up  on  the  As- 
trolabe River,  in  the  loveliest  spot  of  the  loveliest 
valley  of  all  that  lovely  country.  It  has  a  handsome 
house,  filled  with  books,  with  pictures,  with  dainty 
furniture  and  ornaments,  all  showing  the  care  of  a 
cultured  hand.  It  has  a  great  cool  river,  and  a  water- 
fall that  sings  all  day  and  all  night  long.  It  has  flow- 
ers and  fruits  as  many  and  as  fair  as  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  and  an  Eve  whom  no  angel  would  ever  have 
had  the  heart  to  turn  from  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
But  there  is  no  serpent  there. 

We  are  growing  rich,  or  at  least,  we  hope  to,  as 
Papua  counts  riches,  some  day.  We  are  both  of  us 
more  anxious  about  money  matters  than  we  used  to 
be;  there  are  reasons  why  we  should  be  so.  We  do 
not  need  the  world,  nor  care  for  it,  but  —  others  may. 

The  old  book  is  finished.  We  keep  it  —  for  the 
future. 


THE  END 


364 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  818  575     3 


